'TSi] 


-t 


18  3L'. 


THE 


CHRISTIAN    OFFERING, 


FOR 


MDCCCXXXII 


.  ■•  _  ->  >^  > 


BOSTON: 
LINCOLN    AND    EDMANDS, 

AND 

B.  FRANKLIN  EDMANDS. 


1832. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Confess,  in  the  year  1831, 

By  Lincoln  and  Edmands, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


C      C     "^c      G 


PREFACE. 


There  can  be  no  doubt  entertained,  by  a  re- 
flecting mind,  that  the  wide  diffusion  of  the  light 
and  elegant  literature  of  the  day  is  exerting  a 
powerful  influence  on  the  community,  and  espe- 
cially on  the  youthful  mind;  and  it  is  therefore 
incumbent  on  the  friends  of  truth  to  aid  the 
circulation  of  such  works  of  taste  as  shall  produce 
the  best  moral  and  religious  effects. 

In  this  volume,  an  attempt  has  been  made  to 
show,  that  literary  elegance  and  Christian  in- 
struction may  happily  coalesce. 

The  editor  feels  his  oblio-ations  to  the  kindness 
of  those  who  have  enriched  his  voiume  with  their 
efforts,  and  hopes  for  a  continuance  of  their  aid. 

J.  O.  C. 

Newport,  R.  I.,  Oct,  1831. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Chaiity  beareth  all  Things.    Mrs.  Sigourney     .      1 

Lilies  written  on  a  Print  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 

William  R.  Williams,  Esq 4 

A  Church  in  the  Backwoods.    IMiss  Isabel  Ann 

Drysdale 6 

The  Mourner.    T.  W.  H 18 

Rome  buried  in  her  own  Ruins 19 

God  is  Love.     Iota 21 

Biographical  Sketch  of  the  late  Right  Honorable 

Seliiia,  Countess  Dowager  of  Hunthigdon.     22 

The  God  of  Israel.     B '.-...    35 

Lines  addressed  to  the  Rev.  Joshua  Tinson,  on 
his  leaving  England  to  enter  upon  Mission- 
ary Labors  in  the  Island  of  Jamaica.  By 
the  Rev.  J.  P.  Saffery 37 

Evening  amongst  tlie  Alps.  By  the  Author  of 
"Modem  Greece." 40 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Remarks  upon  the  Character  of  the  late  Em- 
peror of  France,  Napoleon  Bonaparte.   .  .      41 

The  Hindoo  Widow.    A  Fragment.     From  an 

unpublished  Poem.     H 58 

Ode  to  Thought.     Clarissa GO 

ReUgion  not  a  Hinderance  to  the  Student.     By 

Rev.  Irah  Chase 64 

"WUt  tliou  be  there?"    T.  W.H 71 

Lines  written  on  a  Drawing  of  Mount  Vernon, 
the  Seat  of  General  Washington.  B}^  the 
Rev.  William  Jay,  of  Bath 72 

"  The  effectual  fervent  Prayer  of  a  righteous 
Manavaileth  much."  By  the  Rev.  John 
Harris 73 

Lines  wiitten  by  the  Rev.  William  Jay,  of  Bath, 
on  a  Visit  to  his  native  Village  (Tisbury),  in 
August,  1800 89 

The  Christian.    T.  W.  H 87 

Lines  composed  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ryland,  the  Day 
.    before  his  Death,  April,  1825 88 

The  Spread  of  the  Gospel.    By  the  Rev.  S.  P. 

Hill 90 

A  Year  of  Life.  By  the  Rev.  John  Newton 
Bro^vn ^-8 


CONTENTS.  VU 

Page. 
The  Resurrection  Hope.    At  the  Grave  of  a 

Friend.    T.  W.  H 101 

The  Convict's  Friend 102 

The  Baptism.    By  Mrs.  Sigouniey 127 

The  Triumph  of  Jesus.  By  the  Rev.  J.  Lawson, 

Missionary,  Calcutta 131 

Pagoda  at  Rangoon.     By  the  Rev.  James  D. 

Knowles 133 

To  the  Eye.      By  the  Author   of  "Modem 

Greece." 138 

The  Remonstrance.     By  Miss  Anne  Taylor.  .  140 

The  new  Heavens  and  the  new  Earth.    J.  O.  C.  148 

The  Bard.      T.  H.  W 153 

A  Prayer.    By  the  Rev.  George  W.  Bethune.  155 

The  exceeding   Sinfulness  of  Sin  exhibited  in 
the  Gospel  of  Christ.    By  the  Rev.  William 

Hamilton 157 

A  Lament  for  Ellen.     By  Mrs.  M'Cartee.  ...  162 

Metastasio.     Sprezza  II  Fudor  Del  Vento.  .  .  164 

Ministerial  Education.     By  B.  B.  Edwards.  ,  165 

The  Morning  Star.     By  the  late  Rev.  James 

Eastburn 176 


Vlil  CONTENTS. 

Tago. 

Hints  on  Literary  Habits.    By  the  Rev.  Jaines 

D.  Knowles ^ 179 

Home.    By  WilUam  R.  Williams,  Esq 196 

Foster's  Lecture.     Notes  of  a  Lectm-e  by  the 

Rev.  John  Foster 200 

The  Invalid.    By  Miss  Isabel  Ann  Drysdale.  .    211 

The    Death   of  Howard,  the    Philanthropist. 

J.  W— n 221 

Illustration  of  John  xiv.  8,  9.  By  the  Rev. 
Jeremiah  Chaplin,  D.  D.,  President  of 
Waterville   College 223 

The  Jewish  Captive.     W.  V 225 

The   Dying  Wanior.      By  the  Rev.  Robert 

M'Cartee,  D.  D 228 

The  Sabbath  Day.    T.  W.  H 230 


1        •        •»»»,» 


''CHARITY  BEARETH  ALL  THINGS." 

St.  Paul 
by  3irs.  sigour>'ey. 


The  Lion  loves  Ms  own. — The  desert  sands, 
High  tossed  beneath  his  spurnmg  foot,  attest 
The  rage  of  his  bereavement.     With  hoarse  cries, 
Vindictive,  echoing  round  the  rocky  shores, 
The  polar  bear  her  slauglitered  cub  bewails ; 
While  with  a  softer  plaint,  where  verdant  groves 
Responsive  quiver  to  the  evemng  breeze. 
The  mother-bird  deplores  her  ravaged  nest. 

Tfic  Savage  loves  his  own. — His  Vviud-rocked  babe, 
That,  rudely  cradled  'mid  the  fragrant  boughs, 
Or  on  its  toiling  mother's  shoulders  bound, 
Shiinks  not  from  sun  or  ram, — his  hoaiy  sire. 
And  hunting-spear,  and  forest  spoils,  are  dear. 

The  Pagan  loves  his  own. — The  faithful  friend 
Who  by  his  side  the  stormy  battle  dares. 
The  chieftain  at  whose  nod  his  life-blood  flows. 
His  simple  hut,  and  native  earth,  are  dear. 

The  Christian  loves  his  own. — But  is  his  God 
Content  with  this,  who,  full  of  bounty,  pours 
His  sun-ray  on  the  evil  and  the  good. 
And,  like  a  parent,  gathereth  round  his  board 
The  thankless  with  the  just.^ 
1 


2  ,    T;i?I'    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

'    /,  Shall  man,  who  shares 

"."'Vh  iinrequit'a^Tjair^uet,  sternly  bar 
From  his  heart's  brotherhood  a  fellow-guest  ? 
Shall  he  within  his  bosom  sternly  liide 
Retahation's  poison,  when  the  smile 
Of  Heaven  doth  wm  hhn  to  the  deeds  of  love  ? 
Speak,  servants  of  that  Blessed  One  who  gave 
The  glorious  precept,  "  Love  your  enemies ;" — 
Is  it  enough  that  ye  should  love  your  friends, 
Even  as  the  heathen  do  ? — Is  He,  who  bore 
The  flight  of  friendship,  the  denial-vow 
Of  coward  love,  the  Pharisaic  taunt, 
Judea's  maddened  scourge,  the  Roman  spear, 
A  world's  offences,  and  the  pang  of  death, — 
Is  He  your  Master,  if  ye  only  walk 
As  Nature  prompts  ? — If  the  love-beaming  eye 
Druik  fond  return  reciprocal,  the  hp 
That  pours  your  praise  partake  your  sympathy 
When  sorrow  blanches  it,  the  liberal  hand 
Wm  by  its  gifts  your  meed  of  gratitude, — 
What  do  ye  more  than  others  ?     But  on  him 
Whose  frown  of  settled  hatred  mars  your  rest, 
W^lio  to  the  bosom  of  your  fame  doth  strike 
A  serpent-sting,  your  kindest  deeds  requite 
V/ith  treachery,  and  o'er  your  motives  cast 
The  mist  of  prejudice, — say,  can  you  look 
With  the  meek  smile  of  patient  tenderness. 
And  from  the  deep  pavilion  of  your  soul 
Send  up  the  prayer  of  blessing? 


CHARITY. 

God  of  Strength ! 
Be  merciful ;  and,  when  we  duly  kneel 
Beside  our  pillow  of  repose,  and  say, 
»•  Forgive  us,  Father,  even  as  we  forgive,''^ 
Grant  that  the  murmured  orison  seal  not 
Our  condemnation. 


LINES 


WRITTEN  ON  A  PRINT  OF  SIR  ISAAC  NEWTON. 


BY    WILLIAM    R.    WILLIAMS,    ESQ. 

His  mind  was  like  the  starry  skies  he  read, 
Bright,  vast,  and  cahn,  and  fathomless :  the  dreams 
Of  ancient  days,  that  men  had  worshipped  long 
As  glorious  forms  of  truth,  to  it  were  clouds 
That  gorgeous  floated  by,  nor  found  a  home 
Nor  left  a  stain  m  all  that  vault  of  hght. 
His  country,  proud  her  laurelled  sons  amid, 
Him  hails  with  mighty  Bacon,  and  with  Locke 
Keen-eyed,  her  chiefs  ^vith  mental  empire  girt. 
And  throned  in  deathless  fame.     With  kmdliug  eye, 
She  turns  to  other  ages,  and  to  climes 
Remote,  and  flings  the  gauntlet  of  his  fame 
To  all,  "  From  those  who  on  Euphrates'  bank, 
Or  by  far  Ganges  counted  first  the  stars, 
To  Galileo,  Kepler  and  Des  Cartes ; 
Who  can  with  peerless  Ne^vton  vie  ?" 

The  babe 
That  died  but  yesternight,  ere  yet  its  lips 
Had  framed  a  word,  or  it  had  learned  to  know 


SIR    ISAAC   NEWTON. 

The  mother,  on  whose  breast,  all  helpless  hung, 
It  feebly  wailing  gasped  away  its  Ufe, 
Shall  \-ie  \^dth  England's  sage,  and  prove  his  peer ; 
For  it  has  learnt,  as  with  a  moment's  glance. 
More  than  the  mortal  Ne^\lon  knew,  and  now 
At  all  the  scanty  lore  of  earth  it  smiles ! 
1* 


A  CHURCH  IN  THE  BACKWOODS. 


BY    MISS    ISABEL    ANN   DRTSDALE. 

Many  years  ago,  dui-ing  a  rambling  excursion 
through  the  interior  of  Georgia  and  Carohna,  1 
remember  stopping  late,  one  Saturday  evening,  at 
a  shabby  little  iim,  in  one  of  the  most  remote  and 
recently  settled  districts.  All  around  was  wild,  and 
rude,  and  imperfect,  proclaiming,  at  every  step,  the 
new  sdtlement.  At  that  time,  I  was  utterly  devoid 
of  religious  feehng :  still  I  was  decorous  in  my  con- 
duct, and  was  regarded  as  "  a  good  kind  of  a  man." 
At  home,  on  the  Sabbath  morning,  duly  as  the  town 
clock  struck  nine,  the  door  of  my  counting-room 
was  closed,  the  leger  abandoned,  with  all  its 
perplexities,  and  home  I  hastened  to  make  the 
customary  preparations  for  appearing  in  "  the  great 
congregation."  Let  none  of  my  readers  misunder- 
stand me :  this  preparation  had  no  connection  with 
the  regulation  of  my  thoughts  and  affections, — 
no  heavenl}^  meditation,  introductory  to  my  au- 
dience with  the  King  of  kings.  It  was  simply  the 
changing  of  my  every  day  drab  coat  for  a  superfine 
surtout,  or  smoothing  into  more  than  ordmary  sleek- 
ness my  Sunday  beaver.     Yet,  strange  to  say,  from 


A   CHURCH    IX    THE    BACKWOODS.  7 

this  most  gross  and  worldly-minded  conformity,  I 
derived  a  vast  fund  of  internal  complacency  and 
self-security,  and,  contemplating  the  bolder  offender, 
I  was  often  ready  to  say,  "  God,  I  thank  thee  that  I 
am  not  as  this  man."  And,  thus  placed  under  the 
incessant  influence  of  religious  truth,  my  heart  at 
last  became  like  a  pohshed  stone,  worn  harder  by 
constant,  but  ineffectual  attrition. 

Such  bemg  my  habits,  I  Avas  obviously  a  "  church- 
going"  man,  and  before  I  retired  at  night,  I  learned 
with  gi-eat  satisfaction,  that,  "  the  best  meeting-house 
in  the  settlement"  was  only  a  few  miles  distant. 
Accordingly,  the  next  morning,  I  set  forth  rather 
earher  than  the  appointed  hour,  and,  foUo^Aing  one 
of  the  almost  innumerable  paths,  which,  winding 
from  every  direction,  converged  towards  a  certain 
pomt,  I  found  myself,  after  a  short  ride,  enteiing  the 
grove  in  which  I  expected  to  find  the  church.  Nor 
was  it  long  before  it  appeared,  in  the  midst  of  a 
v^-ide  clearing,  but  certainly  veiy  unhke  the  concep- 
tion I  had  formed  of  it  in  my  oa\ti  mind.  Assuredly 
I  had  not  expected  to  find  in  this  church  of  the 
backwoods,  an  edifice  of  stone,  or  brick,  or  even 
of  well-painted  wood,  with  tall  steeple  and  gilded 
vane,  such  as  I  was  famihar  with  in  cities;  but 
some  vague  notion  I  had  of  rustic  simplicity  and 
beauty,  and  when  I  beheld  an  uncouth-looking  loff 
building,  its  unhewn  timbei-s  still  cased  hi  their 
original  sylvan  envelope  of  shaggj-  bark,  I  acknowl- 
edge, that  the  little  temple  of  the  woods  scarcely 


8  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

received  from  me  that  respect  which  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  accord  to  every  house  of  God. 

In  the  open  space  before  the  church,  seated  on 
the  grass,  and  dispersed  through  the  neighboring 
woods,  I  found  its  humble  congregation ;  and, 
learning  that  the  minister  had  not  arrived,  I  strayed 
onward  into  the  green  shades  surrounding  us. 
Here  I  was  soon  constrained  to  confess,  that,  though 
the  church  of  the  "new  settlement"  had  disappoint- 
ed my  expectations,  it  certainly  enjoyed  the  most 
lovely  and  picturesque  situation  I  had  ever  beheld. 
From  the  deep,  black  loam,  shot  up  a  giant  forest 
groAVth,  whose  broad,  umbrageous  branches  spread 
around  an  almost  unbroken  continuity  of  shade :  no 
confused  under-brush  obstructed  the  view ;  all  was 
clear  and  free,  and  long  vistas  opened  on  every  side, 
between  the  massy  columns  of  mighty  oaks,  syca- 
mores, and  magnolias.  Beneath  the  whole  was 
spread  a  close-cropped  gi*een,  richly  sprinkled  with 
the  crmison  leaves  of  the  gum-tree,  and  the  bright, 
yellow  foHage  of  the  sassafras,  for  it  was  late  in 
September,  and  every  passing  breeze  showered  the 
earth  Avith  these  brilliant,  but  transient  honors  of  the 
autumnal  gi'ove. 

On  my  return  to  the  church,  I  found  that  the 
minister  had  amved :  the  congregation  were  crowd- 
ing into  the  church,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty 
that  I  procured  a  seat.  I  had  a  few  minutes  to 
reconnoitre  my  situation,  in  the  midst  of  a  plain, 
homespun-clad  people,  whose  expectant  looks  and 


^- 


A    CHURCH    IN    THE    BACKWOODS.  9 

earnest  attention  I  mentally  contrasted  with  the 
stiff,  artificial  propriety  of  a  city  congregation.  But 
my  speculations  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  the 
appearance  of  the  mmister  himself,  slowly  rising  in 
the  httle  stand  which  served  for  a  pulpit.  He  wore 
the  common  garb  of  the  country,  and  his  face,  deeply 
bronzed  by  exposure,  showed  that  he  shared  its 
common  lal)or.  But  the  thin,  white  locks,  which 
grew  around  his  sunken  temples,  and  a  sweet 
seriousness  in  liis  whole  look,  redeemed  his  counte- 
nance from  any  thing  like  coarseness  or  vulgarity 
of  expression.  I  could  not  help  looking  reverently 
on  the  old  man,  maugre  all  my  city  prejudices 
against  a  coarse  coat  and  clergy  out  of  Hack ;  and 
when  he  began  to  read,  in  a  voice  which  was  full  of 
natural  music,  though  evidently  untrained  to  the 
elegances  of  the  art,  I  listened  with  pleased  attention, 
deeply  touched  by  the  profound  solemnity  and 
pathos  with  which  he  recited  the  following  lines 
from  Watts : — 

God  of  my  childhood  and  my  youth, 

The  Guide  of  all  my  days, 
I  have  declared  thy  heavenly  truth, 

And  told  thy  wondrous  ways. 

Wilt  thou  forsake  my  hoary  hairs, 

And  leave  my  fainting  heart  ? 
Who  shall  sustain  my  sinking'  j'ears. 

If  God,  my  strength,  depart  ? 

The  fire  of  devotion,  which  Idndled  in  his  languid 
eye  at  the  commencement,  was  quickly  quenched 


10  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

ill  a  glistening  tear,  and  the  strong  quiver  of  emotion 
rendered  liis  voice  nearly  inaudible  in  the  last  verse. 
My  heart  was  considerably  softened  by  this  introduc- 
tion, and  the  avenues  of  feeling,  long  sealed  by  in- 
veterate worldliness,  were  gently  opened  to  the 
holy  influences  which  flowed  from  the  following 
services. 

The  humble  pastor  of  the  backwoods  was  an 
unlettered  man ;  his  "  Bible  true"  was  his  only 
book ;  but  from  that  pure  fountain,  he  had  drunk 
deeply  of  holy  wisdom  and  divine  philosophy  ;  and 
to  his  thoughtful,  observant  eye,  the  rich  volume  of 
nature  presented  an  aflfecting  and  harmonious 
commentary.  There  was  not  a  rural  landscape,  a 
changing  season,  or  varying  hour,  not  a  home- 
scene  in  life,  which  he  could  not  find  clearly  re- 
flected in  the  mirror  of  inspiration :  the  finger  of 
God  had  painted  both,  and  he  loved  the  venerable 
impress.  This  it  was,  this  beautiful  appropriation 
of  scriptural  imagery,  which  constituted  the  pecuhar 
charm  of  his  preacliing,  giving  an  ever- varying  fresh- 
ness to  his  thoughts,  and  tinging  them,  as  it  were, 
with  the  hues  of  heaven.  He  was  an  unlettered 
man,  and  he  meekly  contented  himself  Avith  the 
beaten  track  of  experience,  avoiding  those  heights 
and  depths  of  doctrine,  which  require  the  strong 
pinion  of  a  trained  and  disciplined  mind.  He 
talked  of  the  bitterness  of  sin,  which  he  had  felt, 
of  the  love  and  goodness  of  Christ,  which  he  had 
tasted ;  and  when  he  spoke  of  a  faithful  God,  liis 


A    CHURCH    IN    THE    BACKWOODS.  11 

hand  mstinctively  rose  to  his  own  gray  locks,  as 
an  affecting  testimonial.  There  was  so  much  of 
the  powerful  interest  of  reality  in  all  this,  that  as  he 
painted,  with  glowing  fervor,  the  future  glories  of  the 
redeemed,  I  looked  on  the  coarse  sleeve  on  his  ex- 
tended arm,  and  almost  thought  that  I  saw  it  already 
transmuted  into  the  ethereal  garment  of  light. 

I  left  the  church  lo\dng  and  reverencmg  its  aged 
preacher,  and  deeply  affected  by  aU  that  I  had  heard, 
A  short  intermission  was  to  be  followed  by  a  second 
sermon,  and  I  lingered  near  the  church  to  hear  it. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  congregation  were  gi-ouped 
about,  in  little  clusters,  under  the  trees,  strongly 
reminduig  me  of  those  companies  seated  on  the 
grass,  into  which  the  pitying  Redeemer  arranged 
the  fainting  multitude  in  the  wilderness.  From  one 
of  these  gi-oups  I  saw  the  venerable  minister  ad- 
vancing towards  me ;  he  accosted  me  with  hearty 
kindness,  and  invited  me  to  a  seat  under  his  tree, 
and  a  share  of  his  httle  refreshments,  \A\h.  a  sim- 
plicity' and  frank  courtesy  which  reminded  me  of 
patriarchal  hospitality.  During  this  hasty  repast,  I 
made  some  progress  in  his  acquaintance,  and 
received  from  him  an  invitation  for  the  night,  to 
which  I  gladly  assented. 

It  was  late  before  the  congregation  dispersed,  and 
the  beams  of  the  setting  sun  hghted  them  home, 
some  on  foot,  and  others  on  horses,  in  carts  and  in 
carnages.  AVe  listened  for  some  time  to  the  mingled 
hum  of  voices  as  they  receded  from  us,  and  occa- 


12  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERIXG. 

sioiially  a  distant  strain  of  sacred  music  floated 
sweetly  by  us,  the  holy  vesper  of  the  closing 
Sabbath. 

I  led  my  horse,  and  wall<:ed  by  the  side  of  the 
man  of  God,  whose  firm  step  and  rapid  pace,  as  ho 
tlireaded  the  forest  by  a  httle  winding  foot-path, 
bespoke  a  green  and  vigorous  old  age.  The  dusky 
shades  of  twilight  enveloped  every  object  before  we 
discovered  a  httle  hght,  shining  like  a  twinliling  star 
at  a  distance. 

"  That  is  my  light,"  said  the  old  man,  mending  his 
pace  as  if  animated  by  the  sight ;  and  we  pursued 
its  "  long  levelled  rule,"  until  led  by  it  to  the  door 
of  a  common  log  cabin. 

I  felt  pained  and  confused  as  we  entered  thia 
humble  dwelUng,  fearing  that  this  exposure  of  his 
poverty  might  wound  the  feelings  of  my  new  friend. 
But  his  frank,  unembai-rassed  mamier  soon  reheved 
my  uneasiness,  and  I  took  the  oaken  chau*,  which 
lie  presented,  with  pleasure  and  alacrity. 

Our  supper  was  soon  served,  sweetened  by  peace 
and  heart-felt  good- will ;  it  was  clean  and  abundant, 
but  very  homely :  indeed,  every  thing  that  I  saw 
informed  me  that  I  was  under  a  poor  man's  roof. 

Anxious  to  do  him  all  the  honor  in  my  power,  1 
ventured  something  hke  a  compliment  on  the  dis- 
courses I  had  heard  through  the  day.  He  smiled, 
and  said  that  he  was  much  obhged  by  the  atten- 
tion with  which  I  had  hstened  ;  he  was  sure  I  must 
be    accustomed    to    very    different    j)reaching.     I 


A    CHURCH    IN    THE    BACKWOODS.  13 

warmly  disclaimed  this  fact,  and  was  proceeding  in 
a  still  more  complimentaiy  strain,  when  he  modestly, 
but  with  dignity,  waved  the  sulyect.  "  You  are  very 
kind,  sir,"  he  said,  "  veiy  kind  ;  I  see  your  motive, 
and  am  bound  to  be  thankful  for  it.  Indeed,  I  hope 
I  am  not  so  unmindful  of  the  dignity  of  the  message 
which  I  bear,  as  to  forget  its  claims,  even  when 
dehvered  by  a  poor  and  ignorant  man,  like  myself. 
God  speaks  in  the  rough,  hoarse  east  wind,  as  Avell 
as  in  the  soft  breezes  of  spring.  He  is  the  God  of 
battles  for  Israel,  whether  he  conquers  by  the  pebble 
of  the  brook,  or  the  pohshed  shaft  from  the  armory 
of  kings." 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  I  drew  from  my 
host  a  little  histoiy  of  himself,  deUvered,  as  nearly 
as  I  can  remember,  in  the  following  words. 

"I  have  veiy  litde  story  to  tell.  I  am  a  poor 
man  myself,  and  was  a  poor  man's  son.  When  I 
was  a  tall  lad,  about  the  age  of  my  eldest  son,  who 
sits  next  to  you  at  table,  my  father  trusted  me  with 
his  httle  crop  to  carry  to  market.  A  more  foolish 
and  careless  youth  than  I  was  at  that  time  you  can 
scarcely  conceive :  I  had  hardly  more  thought  than 
the  beasts  by  whose  side  I  trudged  whistling  along. 
My  w^hole  ambition  was  to  possess  a  horse  and  gun 
of  my  o^vn,  and  I  asked  no  higher  honor  than 
being  caUed  the  best  marksman  and  racer  in  our 
settlement. 

" was  the  first  to^vn  I  had  ever  seen,  and, 

after  putting  up  my  cotton  as  my  father  had  di- 
2 


14  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

reeled  (for  it  was  Sunday),  I  walked  from  street 
to  street,  gaping  about  me,  and  stopping,  every 
minute,  to  admire  some  strange  sight.  Suddenly  I 
was  startled  by  the  loud,  solemn  tones  of  a  church 
bell,  close  above  me.  I  had  never  heard  any  thing 
Uke  it  before,  and  the  curioshy  and  dehght,  which 
I  expressed  with  the  utmost  simj)licity,  so  amused 
and  pleased  a  gentleman  who  was  passing  at  the 
moment,  that  he  offered  to  take  me  to  the  place 
whence  the  sound  came.  He  accordingly  carried 
me  with"  him  to  church ;  but  I  suspect  that  he  was 
rather  ashamed  of  my  clownish  appearance,  for  he 
stowed  me  away  in  a  galleiy  pew,  and  left  me 
immediately. 

"At  first  I  did  nothing  but  gaze  at  the  highly 
di'essed  congregation,  and  the  beautiful  ornaments 
of  the  church ;  but  at  last  the  minister  attracted  my 
attention,  and  I  think  it  never  wandered  from  liim 
again  for  a  single  minute.  I  suppose  that  he  was  a 
very  popular  preacher,  for  the  church  was  greatly 
thronged  ;  j^et  there  was  a  meek  humility  in  his  man- 
ner, which  looked  as  if  his  wonted  place  was  at 
Jesus'  feet.  He  had  an  elegance  and  refinement  of 
speech  and  tone,  which  we  poor  rustic  preachers 
never  can  attain ;  but  in  him  it  was  evidently  natural : 
there  was  nothing  hke  vanity  or  thsplay  about  him  ; 
he  seemed  to  think  only  of  winning  souls  to  Christ. 

"  I  listened  to  him  with  eager  attention  ;  it  seemed 
as  if  a  thick  shroud  was  gradually  withdra-wii  from 
my  mind,  and   new  and  most   overpowering  light 


A    CHURCH    IN    THE    BACKWOODS.  15 

poured  in  upon  it.  At  first,  indeed,  it  was  only 
a  faint  glimmering  breaking  through  the  darkness ; 
but  gradually  I  saw  more  clearly,  and  I  left  that 
house  a  changed  creature.  I  cared  no  more  for 
the  novelties  by  which  I  was  sm-rounded, — God, 
God  was  in  all  my  thoughts, — and,  shrinking  away 
from  every  living  creature,  m  the  stillness  of  retire- 
ment, I  looked  inward  and  upward,  into  the  secrets 
of  tvvo  strange  worlds,  hitherto  unknown  to  me. 

"I  returned  home  an  altered  man.  My  father 
often  asked  what  made  me  so  do%\-n-hearted.  He 
missed  my  merry  whistle  at  the  plough,  my  bois- 
terous glee  in  the  harvest.  But  the  secret  was  soon 
read:  an  old  one-covered  Bible  of  my  mother's, 
which  had  long  been  preserved,  as  the  decent  orna- 
mi^nt  of  our  parlor  shelf,  was  now  my  constant 
companion ;  and,  a  poor,  unlettered  peasant  boy,  I 
would  spell  over  its  blessed  lessons  by  oiu*  evening 
torch,  and  chve  mto  those  affecting  mysteries,  in 
which  the  Avay-faruag  man,  though  a  fool,  shall  not 

eiT. 

"At  first,  I  had  many  a  bitter  gibe  and  surly 
reproof  from  my  father  ;  but  I  bore  it  all  patiently, 
and  God  rewarded  me— God  abundantly  rewarded 
me  I"  (he  exclaimed,  vnth  sudden  animation,  a  bright 
glow  sufiTusing  his  tanned  and  wrinkled  coimte- 
nance)  "  for  he  gave  me  my  father's  soul,  as  the  fruit 
of  my  endurance ;  and  m  this  wide  world,  there  is 
no  spot  so  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  aged  pme,  under 


16  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

whose  shade  my  father  fell  on  my  neck,  and  wept 
his  first  tears  of  contrition. 

"  Gradually  I  began  to  be  noticed  as  a  serious 
young  man :  on  Sundays  the  people  encouraged  me 
to  speak  to  them  upon  rehgious  subjects,  and  it  was 
not  many  years  before  I  became  a  preacher  without 
knowing  it  myself.  Ah,  sir,  how  earnesdy  I  longed 
then  for  the  advantages  of  education !     The  minister 

whom  I  had  heard  in haunted  my  thoughts, 

night  and  day ;  and  hard  I  toiled  in  sun  and  snow, 
strauiing  my  young  sinews  in  vain  efforts  to  amass  a 
httle  treasure  for  this  pui-pose,  hoping  that  I  might  at 
last  learn  hke  him  to  deUver  my  Master's  message. 
That  was  not  the  day  of  rehgious  enterprise  and 
rehgious  seminaries.  Our  pious  youth  pined  m  ob- 
scurity, and  passed  away  unknown  to  the  generation 
among  whom  they  might  have  hved  as  burning  and 
shining  hghts.  It  is  too  late  for  me;  but  I  rejoice,  I 
magnify  the  goodness  of  God  for  the  rising  pros- 
perity of  Zion,  for  the  schools  of  the  prophets 
growing  up  in  the  land." 

By  this  time,  I  felt  so  familiar  with  my  host,  that  1 
ventured  a  few  questions  on  his  condition  as  to 
temporal  things,  which  seemed  to  me  so  every  way 
unworthy  of  his  deserts.  Upon  this  subject  he  was 
rather  reserved :  he  said,  however,  that  he  had  had 
some  hard  struggles  in  his  tune  ;  but,  checldng  liim- 
self,  he  added,  "  I  bless  God,  I  have  never  known 
the  wo  of  a  houseless  head,  or  famishing  family: 


A   CHURCH    I>J    THE    BACKWOODS.  17 

my  bread  and  my  ivater  have  been  sure^  and  this  is  all 
that  I  have  a  right  to  claim." 

JMy  feehiigs  were  gi'eatly  excited,  and  I  spoke 
warnily  of  the  duty  of  his  church  to  provide  for 
hhn  in  a  more  suitable  manner.  A  deep  blush 
crossed  the  old  man's  face,  and  he  said,  "  Our  strength 
is  not  '  the  strength  of  stones,  nor  our  flesh  brass,' 
yet  our  brethren  think  so,  and  jealously  grant  our 
most  modest  requisitions ;  but,"  con-ecting  himself, 
he  added  meekly,  "  I  am  WTong  to  speak  thus,  and  I 
pray  God  to  give  me  a  contented  heart.  Yet  some- 
times, when  I  look  upon  my  childi-en  growing  up  hi 
ignorance  around  me,  I  sigh,  and  wish  that  while  I 
labor  for  them  in  spiritual  things,  they  would  feed 
me  at  least  with  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  their 
tables ;  for,  oh !  how  small  a  mite  from  their  abun- 
dance, would  supply  all  our  wants !  But  let  me  not 
wrong  my  bretliren.  Whenever  I  go  among  them, 
I  find  the  open  door,  and  ready  smile  of  welcome  : 
my  presence  makes  a  little  holyday  among  them, 
and  they  spread  before  me  the  best  that  they  have  ; 
but  bitter  are  the  damties  which  are  unshared  by 
those  we  love,  and  tasteless  the  enjoyments  which 
they  cannot  know." 

Thus  closed  our  conversation.  I  left  the  good 
man  early  the  next  mommg,  never  to  forget  the 
little  church  in  the  backwoods,  and  its  venerable 
minister. 

2^ 


THE    MOURNER. 


Diseased — reviled — of  all  but  life  bereft, 

Stretched  on  the  cold,  damp  earth,  the  mourner  lay ; 
No  friendly  hand,  no  child's  endearment  left 

To  soothe  his  gi'ief,  or  ^^dpe  his  tears  away; — 
Fallen  like  the  forest  oak  beneath  the  blast, 

A  mighty  victim  to  the  ruthless  storm. 
Its  beauties  withered,  and  its  grandeur  past, 

Stripped  of  its  every  leaf,  and  scathed  its  form ; — 
Still,  still  he  owned  the  arm  whose  dreadful  sweep. 

Whose  oft-repeated  strokes  had  pierced  liis  soul ; 
And  in  that  night  of  wo,  so  long,  so  deep. 

No  word  reproachful  from  the  sufferer  stole. 
Hear  him — "  Though  death  itself  these  eyes  may  dim, 
Dealt  by  his  hand,  yet  will  I  trust  in  him." 

T   W.  H. 


ROME  BURIED   IN    HER  OWN   RUINS. 


"BUSCAS  EN  ROMA  A  ROMA,  O  PEREGRINO !" 


QUEVEDO. 


Amidst  these  scenes,  O  pilgrim,  seek'st  thou  Rome  ? 

Vain  is  thy  search — the  pomp  of  Rome  is  fled ; 
Her  silent  Aventine  is  glory's  tomb  ; 

Her  walls,  her  shrines,  but  relics  of  the  dead. 

That  hill  where  Csesars  dwelt  in  other  days, 

Forsaken  mourns,  where  once  it  towered  sublime ; 

Each  mouldering  medal  now  far  less  displays 
The  triumphs  won  by  Latium  than  by  Time 

Tiber  alone  survives:  the  passing  wave. 

That  bathed  her  towers,  now  murmurs  by  her  grave. 

Wailing,  with  plaintive  sound,  her  fallen  fanes- 
Rome  !  of  thine  ancient  grandeur  all  is  past, 
That  seemed  for  years  eternal  framed  to  last: 

Nouffht  but  the  wave — a  fuoritive — remains ! 


GOD  IS   LOVE. 


While  seraphim  are  singing 
Thy  praises,  Lord,  on  high, 

And  heaven's  arches  ringing 
Above  the  starry  sky, — 

On  smihng  vale  and  mountain 
Thy  mercies'  dews  descend, 

Dravi^n  from  the  sacred  fountain, 
Still  flowing  without  end. 

Sunbeams  the  earth  enlighten, 
And  shades  of  midnight  go : 

Thy  smiles  of  love  thus  brighten 
Life's  darkest  scenes  below. 

Man,  beast,  air,  earth  and  ocean,— 
Beneath,  around,  above, — 

And  seasons  in  their  motion, 
All,  all  are  full  of  love. 

With  "  God  is  love"  each  leaflet 
Is  wi'itten  o'er  and  o'er ; 

I  bless  the  mystic  letters, 
Inwove  with  heavenly  lore. 


GOD    IS    LOVE.  21 

But  none  ol  these  can  ease  us, 

Our  guilt  and  sin  subdue, 
Until  the  dying  Jesus  : 

On  Calvary  we  view. 

In  him,  the  burning  centre, 

These  scattered  beams  combine ; 

On  thee,  on  thee  I  venture, 
Mirror  of  love  divine. 

When  saddening  shades  aroimd  me 

Are  falling  from  above, 
And  troubled  thoughts  confound  me, 

Oh !  whisper,  "  God  is  love." 

Thy  love,  oh  !  let  me  taste  it. 

When  pangs  of  death  are  nigh, 
And  keep  me  hke  a  bracelet. 

Or  apple  of  thine  eye. 

Soon  gales  divine  shall  fan  us. 

In  paradise  above  ; 
Oh !  then,  with  glad  hosannas, 

We'll  hail  the  God  of  love. 

Iota. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH 

'     OF   THE   LATE 

RIGHT    HONORABLE   SELINA,   COUNTESS    DOWAGER 
OF    HUNTINGDON. 


The  biography  of  pious  persons,  who  have  devoted 
their  lives  to  the  benefit  of  mankind,  and  to  the 
glory  of  God,  is  an  acknowledged  source  of  pleasure 
and  profit. 

It  is  a  species  of  wiiting  possessing  peculiar 
attraction,  from  its  delineating  the  quaUties  and 
actions  which  mark  tha  subject  of  its  record.  And 
when  there  is  the  stamp  of  divine  approbation  on 
personal  character,  how  interesting  is  the  biographic 
page,  and  with  what  satisfaction  do  we  trace  the 
object  of  our  attention  tlirough  the  various  scenes 
of  Ufe,  to  the  chamber  of  death,  and  even  to  the  very 
gate  of  heaven !  From  the  long  roll  of  eminent 
persons,  whose  hereditary  honors,  or  mental  attain- 
ments, whose  heroic  deeds,  or  consummate  skill  in 
directing  the  affairs  of  nations,  might  diversify  the 
extended  naiTative,  it  is  not  difficult  to  select  exam- 
ples for  the  entertainment  and  instruction  of  man- 


FHinistone  nz: 


»,     ,     >,«    ^   OP^ri^Sc*!::' 


'  /^/^    ///^.^t^^-^-^t 


LADY    HUXTIXGDON'S    BIOGRAPHY.       23 

kiiid.  But  to  record  the  character  of  the  ilkistrious 
lady  whose  name  stands  at  the  head  of  this  article, 
is  to  describe  piety,  benevolence  and  zeal  in  the  best 
of  causes,  which  succeedhig  generations  may  admire 
when  warriors  and  statesmen  are  knowii  no  more. 

Selina,  Countess  of  Huntingdon,  a  descendant  of 
the  house  of  SMrley,  was  the  daughter  of  Washing- 
ton, Earl  Ferrers,  and  was  born  August  24,  1707. 
In  early  life,  when  only  nine  years  old,  seeing  the 
corpse  of  a  child  about  her  own  age  earned  by  to 
the  grave,  she  was  led  to  attend  the  funeral.  There 
she  received  the  first  impressions  of  deep  concern 
respecting  an  eternal  world ;  and  with  many  tears 
she  cried  earnestly  on  the  spot  to  God,  that,  when- 
ever he  should  be  pleased  to  call  her  hence,  he 
would  dehver  her  from  all  her  fears,  and  give  her  a 
happy  departure. 

She  frequently  after  visited  the  grave,  and  always 
retained  a  lively  sense  of  the  affecting  scene. 
Though  no  ^^ews  of  evangehcal  truth  had  hitherto 
opened  on  her  mind,  yet,  even  in  her  juvenile  days, 
she  often  retired  to  her  closet,  and,  in  all  her  httle 
troubles,  found  relief  in  pouring  out  her  requests 
unto  God. 

When  she  grew  up,  and  w^as  introduced  into  the 
world,  she  constantly  prayed  that  she  might  marry 
into  a  serious  family.  No  branch  of  the  peerage 
maintained  more  of  the  ancient  dignit\^  of  English 
nobihty,  or  was  more  amiable  in  a  moral  point  of 
view,  tlian  the  house  of  Himtingdon,  which,  as  well 


24  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

as  the  house  of  Shirley,  bore  the  royal  arms  of 
England,  as  d^'scendants  from  her  ancient  mon- 
archs. 

With  the  head  of  that  family,  Theophilus,  Earl  of 
Huntingdon,  she  became  united  on  tlie  third  of 
June,  1728. 

In  this  high  estate,  she  maintained  a  deportment 
pecuharly  serious.  Though  sometimes  at  court, 
and  visiting  in  the  highest  circles,  she  took  no 
pleasure  in  the  fashionable  folhes  of  the  great.  And 
when  in  the  country,  she  dehghted  to  scatter  her 
bounty  among  her  neighbors  and  dependants,  with  a 
hberal  hand,  endeavoring  by  prayer,  and  fasting,  and 
alms-deeds,  to  commend  herself  to  the  favor  of 
the  Most  High,  and  to  establish  her  own  righteous- 
ness before  liim.  Lady  Betty  and  Lady  Margaret 
Hastings,  Lord  Huntingdon's  sisters,  were  women 
of  singular  excellence.  Lady  Margaret  was  brought 
to  the  saving  knowledge  of  the  gospel  under  the 
preaching  of  the  zealous  Methodists  of  that  time. 

Conversing  one  day  Vvith  Lady  Margaret,  on  the 
subject  of  religion.  Lady  Huntingdon  was  very 
much  struck  with  one  expression  which  she  uttered, 
— that  "since  she  had  known  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  and  believed  in  him  for  life  and  salvation,  she 
had  been  as  happy  as  an  angel."  To  happiness  like 
this,  arising  from  the  favor  of  God,  Lady  Hunting- 
don felt  that  she  was  as  yet  a  total  stranger.  Soon 
after  this  circumstance,  a  dangerous  illness  brought 
her  to  the  brink  of  the  grave  :  the  fear  of  death  ex- 


LADY    IIUXTIXGDOX'S    BIOGRAPHY.       25 

cited  terrors  in  her  niiud,  and  her  conscience  was 
greatly  distressed. 

Under  these  affectmg  circumstances,  the  words  of 
Lady  3Iargaret  forcibly  recurred  to  her  recollection, 
and  she  felt  an  earnest  deske  to  cast  herself  wholly 
upon  Christ  for  salvation,  with  a  determuiation  to 
renounce  eveiy  other  hope.  She  mstantly  hfted  up 
her  heart  to  Jesus  the  Saviour  in  importunate 
prayer ;  her  distress  and  fear  were  speechly  removed, 
and  she  was  filled  A\dth  joy  and  peace  in  belie vmg. 

Her  disorder  soon  took  a  favorable  turn,  and  she 
was  not  only  restored  to  perfect  health,  but,  what  was 
uifinitely  better,  she  was  raised  to  newness  of  life. 
From  that  period,  she  determined  to  offer  herself  to 
God,  as  "a  hving  sacrifice,  holy  and  acceptaljle," 
which,  she  was  now  convinced,  was  her  "  reasonable 
sen-ice."  The  change  which  divine  grace  thus 
wrought  in  her  was  soon  observed  by  all  around,  in 
the  open  confession  Avhich  she  made  of  the  faith 
once  delivered  to  the  saints,  and  by  the  zealous 
support  which  she  began  to  give  to  the  cause  of 
God,  amidst  all  the  reproach  %vith  which  it  was 
attended.  She  had  set  her  face  as  a  flint,  and  Avas 
not  ashamed  of  Christ  or  his  cross. 

There  were  not  Vv-anting  some  who,  mider  tlie 
guise  of  friendship,  wislied  Lord  Huntingdon  to 
mterpose  his  authority ;  but,  although  he  differed 
from  her  ladyship  in  his  views  of  religion,  he  con- 
tinued to  manifest  the  same  affection  and  respect. 
3 


26  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Some  of  tlie  dignitaries  of  the  cliiircli  wore  not  so 
candid  and  liberal  as  his  lordship,  as  appears  from 
the  following  authentic  anecdote.  Lady  Huntingdon, 
one  day,  in  conversation  with  Dr.  Benson,  bishop  of 
Gloucester  (who  had  been  the  tutor  of  Lord 
Huntingdon,  and  had  ordained  Mr.  Whitefield), 
pressed  him  so  hard  with  the  articles  and  homiUes, 
and  so  plainly  and  faithfully  urged  upon  him  the 
awful  responsibilities  of  his  station,  that  his  temper 
was  ruffled,  and  he  rose  in  haste  to  depart,  bitterly 
lamenting  that  he  ever  had  laid  hands  on  George 
Whitefield,  to  whom  he  imputed,  though  without 
cause,  the  change  produced  in  her  ladyship. 

"  My  lord,"  said  she,  calling  him  back,  "  mark  my 
words  :  when  you  come  upon  your  dying  bed,  that 
will  be  one  of  the  few  ordinations  you  will  reflect 
upon  with  complacence."  It  deserves  remark,  that 
Bishop  Benson,  when  near  death,  sent  ten  guineas 
to  Mr.  Whitefield,  as  a  token  of  his  regard,  and 
begged  to  be  remembered  by  him  in  his  prayers. 
It  is  gi'eatly  to  be  regretted,  that  the  splendid  talents 
of  Dr.  Southey,  which  might  have  served  his  genera- 
tion to  so  much  better  purpose,  should  be  prostituted 
to  the  work  of  sarcasm,  ridicule  and  contempt. 
These  he  has  unblushingly  heaped  upon  the  coun- 
tess. In  his  Life  of  Wesley,  he  insinuates  that  her 
religion  originated  "in  a  decided  insanity  in  her 
family ;"  and  tells  us  truly,  that  all  the  arguments  of 
Bishop  Benson  "  were  ineffectual  to  bring  her  to  a 


LADY    HUNTINGDON'S    BIOGRAPHY.       27 

saner  sense  of  devotion."  He  thus  relates  the  first 
part  of  the  anecdote,  but  has  omitted  the  latter  part, 
whether  from  ignorance  or  design  must  be  left  for 
him  to  determine. 

Lady  Huntingdon's  heart  was  now  truly  devoted 
to  Grod,  and  she  resolved  that  she  would  lay  herself 
out  to  do  good  to  the  utmost  of  her  ability.  The 
poor  around  her  were  the  natural  objects  of  her 
attention.  These  she  bountifully  reheved  in  their 
necessities,  visited  in  sickness,  conversed  Avith,  and 
led  them  to  the  throne  of  grace,  praying  with  them 
and  for  them.  The  Prince  of  Wales  once  asked 
Lady  Charlotte  E.  where  Lady  Huntingdon  was, 
tliat  she  so  seldom  visited  the  court.  Lady  Charlotte 
rephed  contemptuously,  "I  suppose  praying  with 
her  beggars."  The  prince  shook  his  head,  and 
said,  "  Lady  Charlotte,  when  I  am  dying,  I  think  I 
shall  be  happy  to  seize  the  skut  of  Lady  Hunting- 
don's mantle." 

During  Lord  Huntingdon's  hfe,  his  coimtess 
warmly  espoused  the  cause  of  God  and  ti'uth, 
though  her  means  of  usefulness  were  necessarily 
circumscribed,  and  her  family  engagements  occupied 
much  of  her  time  and  attention.  On  his  demise,  he 
left  her  the  entire  management  of  her  children  and 
of  their  fortunes,  which  she  improved  for  their 
advantage  with  the  strictest  fidehty.  Having  become 
her  own  mistress,  she  resolved  to  devote  herself 
wholly  to  the  service  of  Christ  and  his  church.  Her 
zealous  heart  embraced  with  cordialitv  all  whom  she 


28  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

esteemed  real  Christians,  whatever  their  denomina- 
tional sentiments  might  be ;  but  her  o^vn  opinions 
were  m  imison  with  those  ministers  who  were 
Calvinistic,  according  to  the  evident  and  hteral 
sense  of  the  church  of  England. 

With  an  intention  of  givmg  these  good  men  a 
greater  scene  of  usefulness,  she  opened  her  house  in 
Park  street,  London,  for  the  preaching  of  the  gospel, 
supposing  that  as  a  peeress  of  the  realm,  she  had  an 
indisputable  right  to  employ,  as  her  family  chajjlains, 
those  ministers  whom  she  preferred. 

On  week-days,  her  spacious  kitchen  was  filled 
with  the  poor  of  the  flock,  for  whom  she  provided 
instruction ;  and,  on  the  Lord's  day,  the  gi'eat  and 
noble  were  invited  to  spend  the  evening  in  her 
drawing-room,  where  the  Rev.  Messrs.  Whitefield, 
Romaine,  Jones,  and  other  able  ministers  of  Christ, 
were  heard  "with  deep  and  serious  attention.  The 
illness  of  her  youngest  son,  which  proved  fatal,  had 
led  her  ladyship  to  Brighton,  for  the  sake  of  sea- 
batlimg.  There  her  active  spirit  produced  some 
awakening  among  the  people  ;  for  it  was  her  practice 
to  visi<^  the  habitations  of  the  poor,  and  to  converse 
with  them  respecting  the  concerns  of  their  souls. 
Encouraged  by  these  attempts  to  promote  the  spirit- 
ual benefit  of  others,  and  by  the  happy  effects  of  the 
preaching  of  the  Rev.  George  Wliitefield  in  that 
town.  Lady  Huntingdon  was  induced,  in  the  year 
1761,  to  erect  a  place  of  worship  in  North  street, 
Brighton.     The  expense  of  this  edifice  she  defrayed 


LADY    HUNTENGDOX'S   BIOGRAPHY.        29 

in  pait  by  the  sale  of  her  jewels  (diamonds  and 
pearlri),  to  the  amount  of  sLx  himdred  and  ninety- 
eight  pounds  fifteen  shillings ! 

Exalted  soul,  that  thus  could'st  treat 

The  toys  thy  sex  esteem  so  high ! 
Thou,  when  God's  jewels  are  complete, 
Shalt  shine  a  diamond  in  the  sky. 

The  success  attending  tliis  fii-st  efi:oit  encouraged 
her  to  proceed,  and,  in  a  few  years,  several  other 
towns  received  the  gospel  by  her  means. 

In  selectuig  preachers  for  the  supply  of  her 
chapels,  Lady  Huntingdon  at  first  confined  herself 
to  the  ministers  of  the  estabUshed  church,  many  of 
whom  accepted  her  invitation,  and  labored  in  the 
places  which  she  had  opened.  But,  her  zeal 
enlarging  with  her  success,  and  many  persons  in 
diflTerent  parts  of  tlie  kingdom  sohciting  her  assist- 
ance, she  set  up  the  standai'd  of  the  gospel,  and 
purchased,  built,  or  hired,  large  and  commodious 
chapels  for  the  performance  of  divine  sen^ice  in  the 
prmcipal  towns  and  cities.  As  these  multiplied  m 
England,  Ireland,  and  Wales,  the  ministers  who  had 
before  labored  for  her  ladyship  were  now  in- 
sufficient for  the  task. 

In  order,  therefore,  to  provide  more  fully  for  the 
work,  she  retu'ed  into  Wales,  where  she  founded  a 
college  in  the  i)arish  of  Talgarth,  Brecknockshire, 
which  was  publicly  opened  by  the  Rev.  George 
Whitefield,  August  24,  1768,  being  the  anniversary 
8* 


30  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

of  her  ladyship's  birth.  The  college  was  provided 
with  al)lc  teachers,  aiid  soon  filled  with  students ; 
and  from  thence  were  sent  forth  the  requisite 
supplies  for  the  numerous  congi-egations  under  her 
patronage.  Their  muiistiy  was  greatly  blessed, 
and  the  accounts  of  their  success  animated  her  to 
still  further  exertions.  Her  correspondence  with 
them,  in  order  to  regulate  and  provide  a  constant 
supply,  was  a  labor  to  which  her  active  spirit  alone 
was  equal. 

Though  Lady  Huntingdon  devoted  the  whole  of 
her  income  to  the  gospel,  yet  it  is  not  a  httle  sur- 
prismg  how  it  sufficed  for  the  lieaxj  expencUture 
wliich  she  necessarily  incurred. 

Her  jointure  was  no  more  than  tsvelve  hundred 
pounds  a  year ;  nor  was  it  till  after  the  death  of  her 
son,  a  fcAV  years  precedmg  her  outi,  that  she  had 
the  addition  of  another  thousand.  She  often  in- 
volved herself  in  expenses  for  building  chapels, 
which  she  found  it  burdensome  to  discharge ;  but 
Divme  Pro\idence  always  brought  her  through  her 
engagements  with  honor,  and  provided  a  supply 
when  her  o^vn  purse  was  exhausted.  A  gentleman 
who  assisted  her  in  the  management  of  Spa  Fields' 
chapel,  called  one  day  at  her  house,  to  expostulate 
with  her  on  the  imprudence  of  entering  into  engage- 
ments for  another  chapel  in  the  metropolis,  ex-press- 
ing his  fears  that  her  means  would  not  allow  her  to 
fulfil  them.  Before  he  left  the  house,  her  letters 
aiTived.     As    she    opened   one,    her   countenance 


LADY    HUXTIXGDOX'S    BIOGRAPHY.        31 

brightened,  and  her  tears  began  to  flow.  The 
letter  was  as  follows:  "An  individual  who  has 
heard  of  Lady  Huntingdon's  exertions  to  spread  the 
gospel,  requests  her  acceptance  of  the  enclosed 
draft,  to  assist  her  m  the  laudable  undertaking." 
The  draft  was  for  £500,  the  exact  sum  for  wliich 
she  stood  engaged.  "Here,"  said  she,  "take  it — 
pay  for  the  chapel — be  no  longer  faithless,  but 
beheving." 

Lady  Huntingdon's  person,  endowments,  and 
spirit,  were  all  uncommon.  She  was  rather  above 
the  middle  size ;  her  presence  noble,  and  command- 
ing respect;  her  address  singularly  engaging;  her 
mind  acute,  and  formed  for  business  ;  her  cUhgence 
indefatigable ;  and  the  constant  labors  of  her  con-e- 
spondence  is  hardly  to  be  conceived.  During  forty- 
five  years  of  widowhood,  she  devoted  her  time, 
talents,  and  property,  to  the  support  and  chfFusion  of 
tlie  gospel.  To  the  age  of  fourscore  and  upwards, 
she  maintained  all  the  vigor  of  youth  ;  and  though, 
in  her  latter  years,  a  contraction  of  her  throat 
reduced  her  ahnost  wholly  to  a  hquid  diet,  her 
sphits  never  seemed  to  fail.  To  the  very  last  days 
of  her  Ufe,  her  active  mind  was  plannmg  extensive 
schemes  of  usefldness  for  the  si)read  of  the  gospel 
of  Christ.  Her  most  distinguished  excellence  was, 
the  fervent  zeal  which  always  burned  in  her  breast, 
to  make  known  the  glad  tidings  to  all  the  dwellers 
upon  earth.  This  no  disappointments  quenched, 
no  labors  slackened,  no  opposition  discouraged,  no 


32  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

progress  of  years  abated:  it  flamed  strongest  in  her 
latest  moments.  The  world  has  seldom  seen  such  a 
character.  But  she  was  not  perfect — this  is  not  the 
lot  of  mortals  on  this  side  of  the  gi-ave.  When  the 
moon  walks  heaven  in  her  brightness,  her  shadows 
are  most  visible.  Lady  Huntingdon  was  in  her  tem- 
per warm  and  sanguine :  her  predilections  for  some, 
and  her  prejudices  against  others,  were  sometimes 
too  easily  adopted ;  and  by  these  she  was  led  to  form 
conclusions  not  always  correspondent  to  truth  and 
wisdom. 

In  the  month  of  November,  1790,  her  ladyship 
broke  a  blood-vessel,  which  was  the  commencement 
of  her  last  illness.  On  that  occasion,  being  asked 
how  she  did,  by  Lady  Ann  Ersldne,  she  replied,  "  I 
am  well !  all  is  well !  well  forever !  I  see,  whether 
I  hve  or  die,  wherever  I  turn  my  eyes,  nothing  but 
victory."  As  death  approached,  she  often  repeated, 
with  great  emphasis,  "The  coming  of  the  Lord 
draweth  nigh !  O  Lady  Ann,  the  coming  of  the 
Lord  draweth  nigh !"  adding,  "  The  thought  fills 
my  soul  with  joy  unspeakable." 

At  another  time,  she  said,  "  All  the  little  ruffles  and 
difficulties  which  surround  me,  and  all  the  pains  I 
am  exercised  with,  in  this  poor  body,  though  many, 
affect  not  the  settled  peace  and  joy  of  my  soul." 
To  a  friend  who  called  on  her  a  few  weeks  before 
her  death,  she  said,  "  I  see  myself,  a  poor  worm, 
drawing  near  to  Jesus.  What  hope  could  I  entertain, 
if  I  did  not  know  the  efficacv  of  his  blood,  and  turn 


LADY    HUXTIXGDOX'S    BIOGRAPHY.       3S 

to  this  hold,  as  the  prisoner  of  hope  ?  How  httle 
could  any  tiling  of  niiue  give  a  moment's  rest  to 
a  departing  soul !  so  much  sin  and  self  are  mixed 
\vith  the  best,  and  that  best  is  always  so  short  of 
what  we  owe !  'Tis  well  for  us  that  he  can  pity  and 
pardon ;  and  we  have  confidence  that  he  will  do  so. 
I  confess,  I  have  no  hope,  but  that  which  inspired 
the  dymg  malefactor  at  the  side  of  my  Lord ;  and  I 
must  be  saved  in  the  same  way,  as  freely,  as  fully, 
or  not  at  all."  A  few  days  before  her  decease,  she 
said,  "I  cannot  teU  you  in  what  light  I  now  see 
these  words — '  If  a  man  love  me,  he  will  keep  my 
words,  and  my  Father  will  love  him,  and  we  ^^^ll 
come  unto  hhn,  and  make  our  abode  with  him.' — 
To  have  in  this  room  such  company,  and  to  have 
such  an  eternal  prospect !  I  see  tliis  subject  now  in 
a  hght  impossible  to  be  described.  I  know  my 
capacity  will  then  be  enlarged  ;  but  I  am  novv'  as 
sensible  of  the  presence  of  God,  as  I  am  of  the 
presence  of  those  I  have  with  me." 

On  the  very  day  of  her  death,  she  expressed  to 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Haweis,  in  the  strongest  manner,  her 
desire  to  send  missionaries  to  Otaheite ;  but,  as  this 
was  impossible,  she  m-ged  Mm,  with  affecting  and 
powerful  argimients,  to  do  all  m  his  power  'to 
accomplish  so  desirable  an  object.  He  promised 
her  lie  would;  and  the  Christian  world  is  not 
ignorant  of  his  fidehty  and  hberaht}^  in  fulfilhng  his 
promise.  She  had  often  hi  her  lifetime  mentioned, 
that,  from  the  moment  that   God  pronounced  the 


S4  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

pardon  of  her  sins,  she  had  such  a  desire  for  the 
conversion  of  mankind,  that  she  coinpared  herself 
to  a  ship  in  full  sail  before  the  wind,  and  that  she 
was  carried  on  by  divine  influence  to  this  glorious 
work.  Almost  her  last  words  were,  "  My  work  is 
done  ;  I  have  notliing  to  do  but  to  go  to  my  Father." 
Her  ladysliip  died  at  her  house  in  Spa-Fields,  June 
17,  1791,  in  die  84th  year  of  her  age,  and  was 
interred  in  the  family  vault  at  Ashby-de-Ia-Zouch,  in 
Leicestershire.  Tlie  mournful  event  was  improved 
at  Spa  Fields'  chapel  on  Lord's  day,  July  3,  by 
the  Rev.  David  Jones,  of  Llaugan,  who  preached 
from  Genesis  1.  24 — "And  Joseph  said  unto  liis 
brethren,  I  die,  and  God  will  surely  ^dsit  you." 

Thus  termuiated  a  lal)orious  and  useful  hfe,  spent 
in  the  seiTice  of  God,  and  for  the  good  of  mankind. 
Many,  hving  and  dying,  blessed  God  for  her,  as 
having  been  the  happy  instrument  of  bringing  them 
out  of  dai'kness  into  marvellous  hglit ;  and  multi- 
tudes, converted  to  God  by  the  instrumentality  of 
ministers  in  that  connexion  of  which  she  was  the 
patroness,  have  met  her  in  the  regions  of  glory,  to 
rejoice  together  in  the  presence  of  God  and  the 
Lamb. 


THE  GOD  OF  ISRAEL. 

"  God  is  known  in  her  palaces  for  a  Refuge." 

Psalm  xJviii.  3. 

Why  wakes  that  moan  of  deep  distress 

In  Pharaoh's  halls  of  state, 
Pealing  through  every  long  recess 

In  accents  desolate  ? — 
The  monarch  views  his  lifeless  heir, 
And  trembles ; — Israel's  God  is  there. 

A  sound  of  revelry  by  night 

Is  heard  in  Babel's  towers, 
Where  impious  freaks  of  wild  dehght 

Disturb  the  listening  hours ; — 
The  jealousy  of  Judah's  fear 
Burns,  and  'tis  silence  deep  and  drear. 

Sublime  on  Sion's  holy  ground, 

A  sacred  fane  appears ; 
And  many  a  bulwark,  stretched  around, 

Its  massive  front  uprears  ; — 
There  God  is  for  a  Refuge  known. 
And  there,  on  all  the  earth,  alone. 


36  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Commingling  there  with  choral  lays, 

Sabean  perfumes  rise ; 
The  fi-equent  victim  there  poitrays 

That  future  Sacrifice 
Whose  blood  for  human  guilt  should  flow, 
And  let  tlie  trembling  culprit  go. 

Salem,  exult !  thy  God  displays 

His  adamantine  shield ; 
Fearless  thy  'habitant  surveys 

The  widely-tented  field ; — 
The  spoiler  marks  thee  with  his  eye, 
Scowls  in  despair, — and  passes  by. 

£. 


LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  REV.  JOSHUA  TINSON, 

ON    HIS    LEAVING   ENGLAND    TO    ENTER    UPON    MISSIONARY 
LABORS    IN    THE    ISLAND    OF   JAMAICA. 

BY  THE  REV.  I.  P.  SAFFERT. 

Must  Friendship's  ties  be  rent  anevr  ? — 

Yes,  we  must  say,  Farewell, 
To  one  who  always  round  us  threw 
A  soul-enchanting  spell. 
Words  can't  impart 

Our  thoughts  to  you  ; 
The  throbbing  heart, 
The  faint  adieu, 
The  speaking  eye,  must  tell. 

And  yet  wc  would  not  have  our  will ; 

No !  go  beyond  the  sea  ; 
The  cause  of  God  is  dearer  still, 
And  He  will  go  with  thee. 
Like  summer  gales. 

The  breath  of  prayer 
Shall  swell  thy  sails, 
And  waft  thee  where 
Our  souls  shall  follow  thee. 
4 


38  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Though  oft  Jamaica's  sickly  breath 

Has  laid  our  envoys  low, 
And  sealed  their  slumbers  deep  in  death, 
Yet  do  not  fear  to  go ; — 
The  voice  of  prayer 
For  thee  shall  rise, 
To  keep  thee  there, 
'Midst  burning  skies. 
From  death's  destructive  blow. 

When  to  their  chieftain's  trophied  tomb 

The  Grecian  heroes  came. 
Undaunted  Ijy  his  mournful  doom, 
And  fired  by  valor's  fame. 
They  there  adored 

Their  gods,  and  swore 
To  sheath  the  sword 
From  thence  no  more 
While  Freedom  urged  her  claim. 

So  when  the  hallowed  graves  appear 

Where  Rowe  and  Kitchen  lie, 
Then  dash  away  the  starting  tear, 
Nor  heave  one  trembling  sigh  ; 
But  swear  by  him 
Who  ever  lives. 
You'll  give  to  him 
The  life  he  gives, 
Nor  fear  for  hun  to  die  ! 


LINES    TO   A  MISSIONARY.  39 

Yes,  go,  the  Spirit's  sword  to  wield  ; 
Our  prayers  shall  guard  your  way, 
Till  triumphs  gi-ace  the  bloodless  field, 
And  captive  souls  obey. 
Go,  break  their  chains, 

SpoU  Satan's  wiles. 
Till  Jesus  reigns 
O'er  Western  Isles, 
And  milhons  own  his  sway ! 


EVENING  AMONGST   THE   ALPS. 

BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF    "  MODERN    GREECE.'' 


Soft  skies  of  Italy,  how,  richly  dressedj 

Smile  these  \vild  scenes  in  your  purpureal  glow  ! 

What  glorious  hues,  reflected  from  the  west, 
Float  o'er  the  dwelHngs  of  eternal  snow ! 

Yon  torrent,  foamhig  down  the  granite  steep, 
Sparkles,  all  brilUance,  in  the  settiug  beam ; 

Dark  glens  beneath  in  shadowy  beauty  sleep, 

Where  pipes  the  goatherd  by  his  mountain-stream. 

Now  from  yon  peak  departs  the  vivid  ray, 
That  still  at  eve  its  lofty  temple  knows ; 

From  rock  and  torrent  fade  the  tints  away. 
And  all  is  wrapped  in  t%vilight's  deep  repose : 

While  through  the  pine- wood  gleams  the  vesper  star. 

And  roves  the  Alpine  gale  o'er  sohtudes  afar. 


REMARKS. 

UPON  THE   CH.\EACTER  OF    THE  LATE  EMPEROR  OF 
FRANCE,  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 

BY    THE     REV.    JOH>"     STYLES,    D.    D. 


In  ti*acmg  the  character  of  the  ambition  which 
rendered  Napoleon  the  scourge  of  the  human  race, 
I  shall  be  guided,  not  by  any  mere  human  estimate 
of  this  most  fatal  and  anti-social  passion,  but  by  the 
dictates  of  the  Holy  Scriptures.  The  Bible  reveals 
all  its  objects  in  the  hght  of  etemitj'.  It  always 
connects  earth  with  heaven,  and  man  with  God. 
Thus,  in  the  sacred  page,  we  are  enabled  to  perceive 
the  ti'uth  of  even*  tiling,  and  to  estmiate  persons  and 
events,  not  as  they  appear  to  the  short-sightedness 
of  man,  but  as  they  are  m  themselves ;  and  it  not 
unfrequently  happens  that. the  good  and  the  e'V'il,  the 
great  and  the  iusignificaut,  in  the  book  of  the  world, 
have  their  characters  totally  reversed  in  the  book 
of  God.  For  instance,  men  glorify  ambition.  In 
humai^  apprehension,  it  is  only  another  name  for 
gi'eatness ;  and,  wherever  it  sti'ongly  exists,  it  is 
supposed  to  mark  out  its  possessor  as  one  of  the 
4* 


42  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

master-spirits  of  the  world.  It  is  the  femd  theme 
of  the  historian,  as  he  traces  the  progress  of  some 
extermmator  of  his  species  from  ohsciirity  to  a 
throne:  it  glows  and  brightens  in  the  poet's  song; 
and  the  loftiest  intellects  have  fallen  prostrate  at  its 
Bhrine.  The  patriot,  hero,  and  the  warrior  of  free- 
dom, are,  indeed,  sacred  names;  but,  with  such 
exalted  beings,  war  has  been  an  enforced  necessity, 
not  a  voluntary  choice.  Their  own  aggrandizement 
has  never  been  an  object,  but  an  accident ;  a  means 
to  bless  others,  and  not  an  ultimate  pursuit  to  deify 
themselves.  A  few  such  glorious  individuals  have, 
at  distant  intervals,  adorned  the  earth,  and  elevated 
almost  to  di\'inity  our  weak  and  fallen  nature.  But 
these  are  not  the  world's  favorites.  Ambition,  sepa- 
rated from  love  of  counti-y  and  of  kind,  has  been, 
and  still  is,  the  god  of  its  idolatry.  Success,  not 
character,  coimriands  its  homage,  and  he  who  places 
hbnself  at  the  summit  of  power  is  adored,  though  he 
wear  the  moral  features  of  the  prince  of  darkness ; 
but  let  the  same  bemg  fall  from  his  giddy  eminence, 
and  his  former  worshippers  become  his  accusei-s, 
and  denounce,  forsooth,  the  enormity  of  his 
crimes. 

Ambition  is  essentially  the  same  in  every  bosom 
that  cherishes  it.  But  why  is  it  only  execrated  in 
the  bosom  of  an  enemy,  or  in  him  who  is  unfor- 
tunate ?  Human  nature  loves  the  principle,  and 
only  complains  of  it  as  an  evil,  when  it  directly 
suffers  from  its  crimes.     From  our  earliest  infancy, 


CHARACTER    OF    NAPOLEON.  43 

we  are  accustomed  to  dwell  Avith  admiration  on  the 
adventurous  spirit,  the  daring  energj',  the  -svondi-ous 
exploits,  of  heroes  and  conquerors.  We  have  heard 
the  plaudits  of  their  own  and  succeeding  tmies,  and 
have  caught  the  infatuation.  We  despise  avarice  as 
the  soul  of  the  WTetch ;  but  ambition  is  only  the 
glorious  weakness  of  the  lofty  and  the  brave ;  and, 
till  this  moral  delusion  be  banished  fi*om  the  world, 
till  ambition  is  understood,  loathed,  and  abhorred,  as 
concenti-ating  in  itself  all  that  is  mean,  as  well  as  all 
that  is  wicked,  we  shall  cherish  in  the  heart  of 
society  its  worst  and  most  destructive  enemy. 

What,  then,  are  the  elementary  principles  that 
form  the  character  of  ambition,  and  that  have  been 
so  unbodied  in  so  many  accursed  tyrants  and  san- 
guinaiy  conquerors  ?  The  great  motive  which 
always  operates  in  the  heart  of  the  ambitious  is 
6clf-aggrandizement.  He  is  covetous  of  distinction, 
either  of  wealth,  splendor  or  fame.  In  its  lowest 
state,  ambition  is  incompatible  with  the  existence 
even  of  a  solitary  \irtue ;  and,  in  its  most  exalted, 
it  is  prolific  of  every  cruiie.  It  originates  either  in 
pride  or  vanity,  or  both ;  and  it  is,  therefore,  the 
energy  of  selfishness. 

It  cannot  be  happy  while  it  has  a  superior  to 
degrade,  or  a  rival  to  subdue.  It  exacts,  but  never 
reciprocates.  The  ambitious  man  is  without  creed 
and  without  law.  He  fears  not  God,  and  therefore 
pays  him  no  homage :  he  loves  not  his  fellow  crea- 
tures ;  therefore  he  never  consults  their  interest  or 


44  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

happiness  any  further  than  they  can  be  rendered 
suborchuate  to  his  own  purpose. 

In  short,  ambition  is  the  practical  anniliilation  of 
every  being,  and  of  every  claim  in  the  universe, 
which  mterferes  with  its  gratification.  It  is  petty  or 
formidable,  accorcUng  to  the  intellectual  character 
and  accidental  condition  of  the  individual.  It  is 
the  same  principle  which  auns  to  supplant  a  village 
demagogue  and  to  subvert  a  mighty  empire.  Great 
talents  may  for  a  time  conceal  its  malignity ;  and, 
thus  associated,  it  may  command  the  thoughtless 
admiration  of  thousands.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
wretch  not  two  removes  from  idiocy  or  barbarism, 
born  to  empire,  seized  with  this  mania,  and  obeying 
its  impulse  with  an  inglorious  stupidity,  may  excite 
the  ridicule  and  abhorrence  of  the  whole  world. 
But  what  is  the  moral  difference  between  the  two  ? 
They  are  equally  detestable,  and  ought  to  be  equally 
detested.  Whether  it  is  the  brilUant  tail  of  a  comet 
that  sweeps  and  scathes  the  creation,  or  the  dark 
earthquake  that  agitates  its  surface  with  universal 
ruin,  they  are  both  visitations  of  calamity. 

The  tiger  and  the  hyena,  though  of  different 
species,  are  equally  beasts  of  prey ;  and  the  nobler 
animal,  as  he  is  called,  though  less  despicable,  is, 
therefore,  an  object  of  greater  terror.  It  is  mipossible 
not  to  loathe  the  idiotic  ambition  of  the  legitimate 
despots  of  Europe ;  and  it  would  fill  us  with  just  alann 
did  we  not  believe  that  the  brute  mass  it  puts  in  mo- 
tion partakes  of  the  imbecility  of  its  masters ;  or  were 


CHARACTER  OF  XAPOLEOX.       45 

we  uot  led  to  hope,  that  it  wi]l,  one  day,  hke  a 
machine  ill  managed,  tear  to  atoms  those  who  have 
touched  its  springs,  but  who  know  not  how  to  du'ect 
its  powers.  But,  when  intellectual  energy',  united 
with  a  deep  reach  of  pohcy,  is  rendered  subseni- 
ent  to  despotism ;  when  the  difference  is  between  a 
Bourbon  and  a  Bonapaite,  though  the  latter,  in  the 
comparison,  seems  to  be  httle  less  than  "  archangel 
ruined,''^  yet  he  is,  in  his  nature,  as  much  the  enemy 
of  his  species  as  the  other,  and  far  more  to  be 
dreaded,  on  account  of  his  superior  capacity. 

What  crimes  may  not  a  man  perpetrate,  who  feels 
that,  in  the  universe,  there  is  none  greater  than  him- 
self; who  is  awed  by  no  consideration  of  account- 
ableness,  and  who  identifies  hmiself  with  destiny ! 
This  pei*suasion  alone,  in  the  mind  of  any  mere 
creature,  would  deprave  lum  into  a  demon.  What, 
then,  must  be  its  influence  over  a  being,  who,  under 
every  restraint  which  can  be  unposed  upon  him,  is 
"  prone  to  e\il  as  the  sparks  fly  upwards  ?"  That 
influence  is  strikingly  exhibited  in  prophecy.  Aim- 
ing at  universal  empu-e,  the  terrible  and  arrogant 
tyrant  to  whom  it  refers,  is  described  as  utterly  de- 
void of  pity  and  humanity — '■^  the  feller  of  the.  fir- 
trees  and  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  f^  not  merely  the 
conqueror  of  monarchs  and  governments,  but  their 
destroyer.  Cruel  and  rapacious  in  all  his  progi-ess, 
he  razed  cities  to  then*  foimdations,  shook  mighty 
kingdoms  to  their  centre,  turned  the  fair  and  fruitful 
world  into  a  "  loildemess"  and  made  the  Aery  earth  to 


46  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

tremble ;  and  in  order  that  he  might  maintain  his  con- 
quests, and  keep  down  the  spirit  of  resistance  which 
tyranny  never  fails  to  provoke,  "  he  opened  not  the 
house  of  his  prisonei's,  and  ruled  the  nations  in  anger, 
and  smote  the  people  in  wrath,  with  a  continual  stroked 
What  a  picture  is  tliis  of  the  modern  conqueror ! 

Of  tliis  extraordniary  man  I  wish  to  speak  with 
the  discrimination  and  candor  of  a  Christian.  It  is 
not  with  his  splendid  deeds  or  magnificent  projects 
as  a  sovereign,  that  we  have  now  to  do.  Whatever 
they  were,  they  were  solely  the  work  and  tlie  dream 
of  his  ambition.  In  the  Christian  view  of  his 
character,  therefore,  they  are  reduced  to  one  simple 
principle,  of  which,  whatever  may  be  tlie  actual  re- 
sults, the  dh'ect  aun  and  operation  are,  to  demoralize 
the  heart  m  which  it  is  cherished,  and  to  sacrifice 
the  most  sacred  rights  of  humanity. 

Were  I  to  be  guided,  in  formuig  my  estimate  of 
the  late  exile  of  St.  Helena,  by  the  common  principles 
of  the  world,  by  the  principles  which  are  equally 
maintained  and  acted  upon  by  those  that  reverence 
and  those  that  detest  hun ;  above  all.,  were  I  to  rest 
satisfied  by  compaiing  him  with  his  heartless,  imbe- 
cile and  vindictive  contemporaries,  who  wanted  only 
his  talents,  his  opportunities  and  resources,  to  render 
them  all  that  they  affect  to  condemn  in  liim, — 
I  should  ceitainl}^  pronounce  Iiun  to  have  been  a 
great  man ;  but,  judging  of  him  by  a  totally  different 
standard,  and  viewing  him  as  separated  from  the 
bad  things  and  the  weak  things  around  him, — taking 


CHARACTER    OF    XAPOLEOX 


47 


his  real  and  not  his  relative  moral  dmiensions, — I 
cannot  award  the  character  of  greatness  to  one  who 
never  conceived  a  gi*eat  and  a  magnificent  idea  that 
was  not  tarnished  and  dmiinished  by  the  most  un- 
disguised selfishness,  and  who  never  formed  a  wdsh 
unconnected  with  the  degi*adation  and  misery  of 
his  species. 

Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  not,  in  the  Christian,  in 
the  noble,  in  the  only  sense  of  the  phrase,  a  great 
man.  His  career  was  wonderful,  and  it  can  never 
be  forgotten  that  he  lived.  But  when  the  time  shall 
come  that  men  will  estmiate  the  distinguished  of 
then*  species,  not  by  their  talents,  but  their  virtues, 
and  when  superior  philanthropy  and  goodness  shall 
be  the  only  passport  to  glory  and  renown, — then  will 
the  names  of  Bonaparte,  of  Alexander,  and  Caesar, 
be  associated  in  one  common  infamy. 

It  may  be  instructive  to  mark  the  growth  and 
progi-ess  of  Napoleon's  ambition. 

I  behold  hmi  the  child  of  obscurity,  friendless  and 
poor;  unsustained  by  any  veiy  peculiar  endowTnents 
of  intellect  and  uncommon  accunuilation  of  knowl- 
edge, and  who,  had  he  been  bom  under  a  quiet  and 
firmly  established  despotism,  would  never  have  risen 
beyond  the  elevation  of  a  general  officer.  He  found 
himself,  in  the  morning  of  life,  amidst  the  ele- 
ments of  a  revolution  the  most  tremendous  that  ever 
changed  the  dynasty  of  kings  or  conti'olled  the 
destiny  of  nations — elements  which,  in  their  strange 
and  unnatural   combinations,  quickened  into  active 


48  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

energy  all  the  dormant  powers  of  intellect  and  ambi- 
tion which  were  to  be  found  in  a  population  of 
thirty  millions.  All  this  mighty  energy  was  prevent- 
ed from  wasting  itself  in  factious  and  internal 
commotions  by  the  insane  interference  of  European 
sovereigns  and  their  armies.  Thus  were  all  the 
bowers  of  anarchy  consohdated  into  one  stupendous 
military  cstabUshment,  which  disciplined  the  entire 
people  into  soldiers,  and  animated  them  with  the 
spirit  of  vengeance  against  their  royal  persecutors 
and  their  sanguinary  slaves. 

Struggling  first  for  domestic  Hberty,  and  after- 
wards for  national  independence,  France  at  last 
maintamed  a  despotic  rule  over  all  Europe  ;  and  it 
was  at  the  very  crisis  of  her  fate,  that  the  military 
adventurer,  who  was  destined  to  raise  her  to  such 
disastrous  gi-eatn  ess,  first  presented  himself  to  public 
view.  He  sprung  up  the  creature  of  circumstances  ; 
circumstances  which,  with  the  power  they  conferred, 
stimulated  the  worst  and  most  formidable  passions 
of  human  nature  in  a  mind  which,  in  point  of  moral 
sentiment,  Avas  at  least  three  centuries  behind  the 
age  in  which  it  was  suddenly  called  to  act.  A  new 
world  of  forces  was  strangely  committed  to  the 
hands  of  one  who  seized  it  ■with  the  avidity  and  the 
spirit  of  a  being  determined  to  employ  it  for  himself 
alone ;  of  one  who  felt  a  perfect  contempt  for  liis 
whole  species,  and  disdained  to  conceal  it.  Power 
was  his  object,  and  he  sought  it  by  every  means. 
Unmoved  by  justice,  humanity,  the  faith  of  treaties, 


CHARACTER  OF  NAPOLEON.       49 

or  the  execration  of  mankind,  when  power  was  to 
be  grasped,  he  defied  them  all,  and  considered  the 
possession  of  it  more  than  a  compensation  for  every 
saci-ifice  which  he  made  to  gain  it.  He  rested  his 
strength  in  physical  force  and  militan,^  pomp.  3Ioral 
energj^  he  despised.  He  calcidated  on  vice  and  the 
wicked  passions  of  mankind  as  his  auxiharies ;  but 
he  beheved  not  in  the  existence  of  religion  and 
virtue.  He  was  not  personally  cruel,  for  he  had  a 
lion-like  courage,  and  was  a  sti-anger  to  fear ;  yet,  to 
secure  his  darling  power,  he  suffered  acts  to  be 
perpetrated  in  his  name,  which  would  have  dis- 
graced the  weakest  and  most  pusillanimous  tyrant. 
Naturally  austere,  he  seldom  discovered  any  of  the 
spnpathies  of  humanity ;  and  when  he  did,  their 
ostentatious  display  justified  the  suspicion  that  he 
could  not  really  feel  them.  His  courage  and  his 
policy  wanted  the  sanction  of  a  good  cause.  He 
used  the  cant  of  hbert}'  that  he  might  more  effectually 
enslave  the  dupes  he  despised ;  and  when  he  talked 
of  "  the  glory  of  France,"  it  was  evident  that  he 
meant  her  complete  subjugation  to  his  despotic  MvilL 

He  did  not  often  condescend  to  vail  his  designs  in 
the  mask  of  li\'pocrisy :  yet,  when  it  was  the  best 
means  to  effect  his  purpose,  he  was  not  reluctant  to 
assmne  it ;  and  it  was  a  matter  of  perfect  indiffer- 
ence whether  it  was  the  mask  of  religion,  of  chivalry, 
of  hberahty,  or  of  science. 

"When  \-irtues  were  deemed  necessarj^  to  the  ac- 
comphshment  of  his  will,  their  coimterfeits  were 
5 


50  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

always  at  his  command,  and  he  acted  them  to  the 
life.  Some,  who  have  drawn  his  character,  have 
exhibited  him  as  an  inexplicable  paradox  of  good 
and  evil,  and  have  assigned  to  him  virtues  and  vices 
totally  incompatible  ^vith  each  other,  and  which 
cannot  possibly  exist  together  in  the  same  bosom. 
But  it  is  not  uncharitable  to  assume,  that,  in  the  soul 
of  ambition,  the  bad  was  real,  and  the  good  a  pre- 
tence. He  that  can  assume  any  rehgion  to  suit  a 
present  pui-pose,  must  be  in  his  heart  a  stranger  to  all 
rehgion  ;  lie  that  is  habitually  a  calculator,  can  never 
be  truly  romantic;  he  that  is  essentially  misan- 
thropic,— and  ambition  is  only  another  name  for  mis- 
anthropy,— can  never  be  generous;  and  he  that 
loves  despotic  rule,  must  be  the  enemy  of  knowledge. 
Those  who  knew  Imn  best,  have  declared  that 
Bonaparte  was  the  most  selfish  of  mankind,  and  that 
whatever  appeared  sublime  and  dazzling  in  his 
character  was  calculated  and  artificial.  When  in 
the  plenitude  of  his  power,  and  before  he  had  felt 
reverses,  he  imagmed  himself  mvmcible,  and  acted 
the  god,  as  if  he  were  really  omnipotent.  He  even 
announced  the  dethronement  of  kings  before  he  had 
struck  a  blow  to  humiliate  them,  and  imagbied  that 
it  was  only  for  him  to  v/ill,  and  empires  must  obey 
his  nod.  He  boldly  declared  to  the  world  that  it 
was  madness,  and  even  impiety,  to  resist  him.  Yet 
might  the  most  supei-ficial  observer  have  perceived, 
that,  in  the  enormity  of  his  power,  there  was  nothing 
inherent,  ilgtUing  permanent.     He  had  made  it  a 


CHARACTER  OF  NAPOLEON.       53 

despotism ;  he  had  separated  the  interests  and  liber- 
ties of  the  people  from  tlie  government,  and  the 
immense  materials  which  he  had  moulded  for  con- 
quest were  held  in  his  single  gi-asp.  His  whole 
system,  if  system  it  might  be  called,  proceeded  upon 
the  fatal  prmciple  that  the  many  are  made  for  one. 
Whatever  benefits  he  conferred  upon  France,  with 
whatever  spoils  he  enriched  her  capital,  and  what- 
ever splendor  he  connected  'svitli  her  name,  it 
was  not  for  her,  but  for  hmi.  His  spirit  was  that 
of  the  haughty  monarch  who  exclaimed,  "is  not 
this  great  Babylon  ivMch  I  have  huiltV  If  by 
his  rule  the  French  nation  acquired  energy,  it  lost 
repose ;  if  it  rose  to  military  glory,  that  glory  was 
purchased  by  the  sacrifice  of  every  social  tie  and 
domestic  joy.  Every  private  dwelling  was  a  milita- 
ry school,  and  the  whole  countiy  displayed  the  gor- 
geousness  and  parade  of  a  camp.  It  was  necessary 
that  a  nation  of  soldiers  should  constantly  labor  in 
their  vocation,  both  for  the  sake  of  keeping  up  their 
discipline,  givmg  them  emplojanent,  and  furnishing 
them  ■\vith  support. 

They  were  therefore  conducted  by  their  rapacious 
chief  to  the  territories  of  sun-ounding  states,  and 
derived  thek  subsistence  from  the  plunder  of  unof- 
fending nations.  In  order  to  maijitain  the  momen- 
tmn  necessaiy  for  permanent  conquest,  all  Europe 
was  laid  under  contributions  to  France,  and  her 
very  name,  associated  mth  the  character  of  her 
ruler,  became  terrible  to  the  whole  civilized  world. 


52  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

It  was  universally  known,  that  the  greatest  power 
ever  wielded  upon  earth  was  in  the  hands  of  a 
man  who  was  capable  of  every  refinement  of  dis- 
simulation and  every  artifice  of  perfidy  ;  who  would 
shiink  from  no  excess  of  barbarity,  however  atro- 
cious, in  the  prosecution  of  his  views.  Indeed,  it 
was  to  this,  principally,  that  the  tyrant  owed  his 
destruction.  All  the  nations  of  the  earth  felt  that, 
however  oppressive  were  then'  own  govenunents, 
a  military  despot  could  not  set  them  free,  and 
that  a  French  invasion  was  but  another  name  for 
confiscation,  plunder,  and  massacre.  Wherever  the 
armies  of  the  conqueror  had  penetrated  (and  their 
shock  was  felt  through  the  universe),  what  horrors 
were  presented  to  the  moral  miagination ! 

Let  us  transport  ourselves  to  the  scene  where  this 
great  captain  of  the  age  gathered  liis  laurels.  Let 
our  fancy  visit  the  continent  at  the  precise  moment 
when  the  tyrant's  will  was  law.  Let  us  learn  his 
character, 

"  Where,  sunk  by  many  a  wound,  heroic  states 

Mourn  in  the  dust,  and  tremble  at  the  frown 

Of  hard  ambition  ;  where  the  generous  band 

Of  youths,  who  fought  for  freedom  and  their  sires^ 

Lie  side  by  side  in  blood  ;  where  brutal  force 

Usurps  the  throne  of  justice,  turns  the  pomp 

Of  guardian  power,  the  majesty  of  rule, 

The  hood,  the  laurel,  and  the  purple  robe. 

To  poor  dishonest  pageants,  to  adorn 

A  robber's  walk,  and  glitter  in  the  eyes 

Of  such  as  bow  the  knee." 


CHARACTER    OF    NAPOLEON. 


53 


Behold  the  proud  monarch  of  many  cro^vns,  and 
ask  the  price  of  his  elevation.  Alas !  his  throne  "  is 
erected  in  a  stall  of  slaughter,  and  environed  by  a 
lake  of  blood."  Those  diadems,  that  dazzle  the  eyes 
of  admimig  vassals,  were  purchased  by  the  destruc- 
tion of  three  millions  of  human  beings  ;  to  each  of 
whom  God  had  given  life,  and  fiiends,  and  comfort, 
and  joy.  But  the  bawble  of  empu*e,  the  monster, 
who  declared  that  his  heart  was  in  his  head,  sacri- 
ficed them  all  as  a  matter  of  mere  calculation, 
without  either  pity  or  remorse.  He  once  declared, 
that  the  most  mipressive  s_ceue  he  had  ever  witness- 
ed was  at  the  battle  of  Leipsic,  when  he  saw,  at  one 
moment,  seveutj^  thousand  troops  struggling  in  the 
conflict  of  death.  And  with  what  emotions  he 
viewed  the  conflagration  of  Moscow — an  event 
which  was  at  once  the  eflect  and  the  ruin  of  his 
ambition — ^^ve  also  leam  from  his  own  testmiony: 
— "  It  was,"  he  exclaims,  "  the  spectacle  of  a  sea 
and  billows  of  fire,  a  sky  and  clouds  of  flame ; 
mountams  of  red,  rolhug  flames,  like  immense  waves 
of  the  sea,  alternately  bursting  forth,  and  elevating 
themselves  to  skies  of  fire,  and  then  sinking  into  the 
ocean  of  flame  below.  Oh !  it  was  the  most  gi-and, 
the  most  sublune,  the  most  terrific  sight,  the  world 
ever  beheld !"  Thus  did  this  murderer  of  millions, 
this  destroyer  of  cities,  that  shook  kingdoms,  and 
made  the  earth  to  tremble,  regard  the  atrocities  he 
committed.  Like  some  malignant  being  from 
5* 


54  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

another  sphere,  commissioned  for  a  season  to  be 
the  curse  and  the  scourge  of  humanity,  he  was  un- 
wearied in  the  work  of  destruction ;  but  Heaven  at 
length  arrested  his  progress,  and  his  fall  was  as 
rapid  as  his  elevation.  It  produced,  throughout  the 
civilized  world,  mingled  astonishment  and  exulta- 
tion ;  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  the  trees  of  the  forest, 
and  the  very  underwood,  the  brambles  and  the 
creepers,  clapped  then-  hands  for  joy.  The  terrified 
birds  of  prey,  that  "hid  themselves,  and  did  not  dare 
to  peep,  or  mutter,  or  move  the  whig,  while  he 
gathered,  as  a  nest,  the  riches  of  the  nations,"  now 
adjusted  their  plumes,  and  spread  their  pinions  in 
the  sun,  to  hover  with  delight  over  the  ruined 
majesty  they  no  longer  feared.  Some  believed  not 
for  joy,  and  wondered :  others,  affected  at  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  human  greatness,  exclaimed,  "  How  are  the 
mighty  fallen!"  while  multitudes,  struck  with  the 
contrast  between  the  exile  of  a  barren  rock,  and  the 
mighty  conqueror  of  nations,  were  heard  to  utter  the 
sublune  apostrophe,  "  Is  this  the  man  that  made  the 
earth  to  tremble  ?  that  did  shake  kingdoms  ?  that  made 
the  world  as  a  wilderiiess,  and  destroyed  the  cities 
thereof 'J  that  opened  not  the  house  of  his  prisoners  ?" 

And,  now  he  is  in  his  tomb,  what  avails  his  former 
grandeur  and  power  ?  A  few  years  since,  and  liis 
command  was  destiny ;  his  eye  glanced  favor  or 
terror,  and  the  raising  of  his  hand  was  death  or  life 
to  millions  : — ^but  what  is  he  now  ? 


CHARACTER  OF  NAPOLEON.       55 

"  His  mandate  is  a  thunder-peal  tliat  died 
In  ages  past  3  iiis  gaze  a  transient  flash 
On  which  the  michiight  closed  5  and  on  his  arm 
The  worm  has  made  his  meal." 

It  has  been  said,  that  "  his  whole  history  was  Uke 
a  dream  to  the  world,  and  that  no  man  can  ever  tell 
how  or  why  he  was  awakened  from  the  reverie." 
It  is  mdeed  true,  that  his  career  was  rapid,  brilliant, 
appalling ;  that,  like  a  bright  meteor,  he  shone  for  a 
short  season  in  the  heavens,  and  then  fell,  in  showei*s 
of  blood  and  vengeance,  upon  the  earth.  It  is 
equally  true,  that,  having  more  good  at  his  disposal 
them  any  other  potentate  of  any  former  age,  he 
actually  employed  his  immense  resourses  to  the 
production  of  a  greater  share  of  mischief  and  miseiy 
to  his  fellow-creatures ;  and  that,  while,  on  the  basis 
of  French  hberty,  he  might  have  founded  that  of 
eveiy  otlier  state  in  Europe,  he  carried  on  a  series 
of  oppressions  against  foreign  states,  to  divert  the 
minds  of  his  own  subjects  from  the  sense  of  their 
domestic  slavery;  thus  imposing  upon  foreign  na- 
tions a  necessity  for  amiing  to  shake  off  his  yoke, 
and  affordhig  to  other  despots  a  pretext  for  following 
his  example.  It  must  also  be  admitted,  that  the 
crhnes  of  Bonaparte  are  more  to  be  abhoiTed  than 
those  of  other  denaturahzed  creatures,  whose  actions 
are  pamted  in  histoiy,  because  the  author  of  those 
Climes  was  guilty  wdth  less  temptation,  and  simied 
in  the  presence  of  a  clearer  light.  Yet  we  are  at  no 
loss  to  account  for  his  existence,  elevation,  and  ruin. 


THE   HINDOO  WIDOW 


^  JFraflment, 


;     PROM    AN    UNPUBLISHED    POEM. 


On  Poonah's  plains,  behold  the  fragrant  pile, 
Around  whose  summit  orient  garlands  smile  : 
Columns  of  teak  support  the  ponderous  frame, 
That  bears  the  victim  of  devouring  flame, 
For  whom  yon  salle  widoic  dares  deny 
The  feelings  of  her  sex,  and  proudly  die. 
Her  last  ablutions  o'er,  the  dame  ascends 
The  river's  bank,  amidst  surrounding  friends  j 
Her  steadfast  eyes  the  mind's  devotion  tell. 
Scarce  raised  to  bid  the  weeping  train  farewell ! 
The  chosen  Brahmins,  with  applauding  voice, 
In  her  unshaken  fortitude  rejoice, 
Her  blind  obedience  bless  with  fond  regard. 
And  falsely  promise  a  divine  reward ! 
With  dauntless  step,  she  mounts  the  bier  above, 

.■v« 

And  cl^^ps  the  breathless  husband  of  her  love ; 

The  demon  executioner  applies 

The  torch  of  hell — the  glimmering  flames  arise. 


]S'^F_^."5j®  ®w  ^winEi®w  SFf  immM.. 


• 


o    «  « 


THE    HIXDOO    WIDOW.  59 

Now,  lest  the  mind  its  energies  forego, 

And  yielding  Nature  utter  shrieks  of  wo, 

The  trumpets  pour  their  ceaseless  clamors  round, 

And  in  rude  shouts  the  groans  of  death  are  drowned- 

Pillars  of  fragrant  smoke  o'erwhelming  rise 

And  veil  the  mouldering  shrine  from  gazing  eyea% 

Till  now  they  drive  before  the  moaning  wind, 

And  but  a  heap  of  embers  leave  beliind. 

Yet  shall  this  horrid  immolation  long 

Live  in  Brahmanic  praise  and  Eastern  soncr  • 

Such  awful  rule  has  sin,  the  tyrant,  gained, 

By  custom  fostered,  and  by  craft  sustained  I 

Columbia's  daughters !  highly  favored  race  ! 
Adore  the  God  of  providence  and  grace. 
Whose  mercy  fixed  your  habitation's  bound 
Beneath  the  glorious  gospel's  charming  sound ; 
Whose  laws,  supremely  clement,  wise  and  good, 
Require  no  penance  stained  with  human  blood. 
Oh  !  pour  on  India  revelation's  light, 
To  chase  the  gloom  of  error's  seven-fold  night ; 
Shake  Satan's  tottering  kingdom  from  its  base. 
And  found  Immanuel's  empire  in  its  place. 

H. 


^f^ 


ODE  TO  THOUGHT. 


Thought  !  thou  wondrous,  wondrous  thinsr. 
On  thee  I  muse,  of  thee  I  smg ; 

And,  while  my  sph'it  rolls  along 
Her  mortal  dwelhng-place. 

Thou  theme  of  my  mquiring  song, 
'Tis  tliou  thyself  must  trace. 

Oh !  'tis  a  clime  of  breadth  unknown, 
Where  no  horizon  bounds  the  sky ; 

Yet  that  vast  breadth  I  call  my  own, 
Far  as  my  plumes  can  fly. 
This  orb  terrene, 
This  busy  scene. 
How  soon  in  thought  I  sweep  it  round ! 

Then  I  look  upward  through  the  air, 

And  see  imperial  regions  there — 
Oh  !  could  I  rise,  and  reach  tliat  holy  ground ! 

Thought  was  not  given  for  grovelling  here, 

Where  every  spot  with  sm  is  fraught  : 
Ah !  no  ;  'tis  heaven's  majestic  sphere 
Which  is  vernacular  to  Thought. 
But  still,  environed  by  a  mass 
Of  intercepting  clay, 


ODE    TO    THOUGHT. 


''t  61 


She  sees  but  darkly  through  a  glass 
Those  lands  to  which  she  soon  must  pass, 
Those  searching  lands  of  glowing,  godlike  day. 

O  Thought !  thou  deep,  exuberant  fount, 

Where  wHl  thy  flowings  end  ? 
Thy  channels  can  I  e'er  recount  ? 
No !  my  best  talents  they  surmount. 

Although  on  them  my  strains  depend. 
Thou  emanation  of  my  soul, 
Why  does  thy  stream  so  devious  roll  ? — 
So  devious  roll, 
Beyond  control, 
When  sin  impels  it  strongly  on  ? 

But  when  I  wish  thy  tide  to  rise. 
It  straight  recedes  before  my  eyes. 
Till  every  wave  is  gone. 


I 


Thought !  what  a  wondrous  thing  thou  art  I 

Wild  rover,  never  known  to  rest ; 
Thy  flight  more  agile  than  the  dart 

That  perforates  the  breast. 
But  why,  thou  low,  degenerate  thing, 
Why  thus  dh-ect  thy  viewless  wing 

To  hunt  a  phantom,  far  beneath  a  thought  ? 
The  wind  tliat  vibrates  from  thy  plumes. 
Fans  it  still  farther  from  those  glooms. 
Where  many  a  shade  reality  assumes. 

But,  once  possessed,  returns  to  nought ! 
6 


62 


THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 


This  thought,  my  soul,  is  that  to  tliee 
Which  constitutes  thyself  to  be  ; 

For  God's  o^vn  breath  infixed  it  there ! 
So  one  short  suppliant  thought  can  rise 
Through  clouds,  and  stars,  and  suns,  and  skies, 

With  seraphs'  songs  to  share  ; 
And  one  short  thought  deserves  a  hell. 
Where  thought  must  ever,  ever  swell 
The  fountain  of  their  fiercest  wo. 
That  no  reprieve  of  thought  can  know. 


Oh !  what  a  man^ellous  thing  is  thought ! 

With  vast,  terrific  mysteries  fraught ! 

It  is  a  space  so  deep  and  wide. 

That  not  all  heaven  its  depth  can  hide  ! 

Full  many  a  crown  effulgent  stands 

Unclamied  on  Jesus'  golden  lands  ; 

Full  many  a  weight  of  gloiy  rests 

Implanted  on  Jehovah's  guests. 

But  thought  insatiate  still  must  he. 

Though  feedmg  on  eternity. 

O  God !  thou  breathest  through  my  soul 

These  thoughts  that  never  ceasing  roll : 

Then  turn  their  wandering  bias  round 

From  earth  to  supramundane  ground  ; 

Guide  the  rover,  Jesus,  guide 

To  thy  lacerated  side. 

My  soul,  behold,  those  tides  divine 

Must  rise  to  wash  a  thought  of  thme. 


ODE    TO    THOUGHT.  63 

Could  I  remember  this,  my  Lord, 

When  thought  indulges  sin, 
I'd  invocate  thy  two-edged  sword 

To  hurl  the  rebel  from  within. 
Let,  let  not  Thought  enamored  be 
With  earth,  nor  heaven,  nor  ought  but  Thee  ! 
Chain  her,  oh !  chain  her  to  thy  throne  ; 
May  she  be  thine,  and  not  ray  own  ; 
That  I  may  ripen  for  the  day 
When  Thought  from  Thee  shall  never  stray. 

Clarissa. 


RELIGION    NOT   A    HINDERANCE    TO 
THE   STUDENT. 


ET    REV.    IRAH    CHASE. 

To  deter  men  from  a  serious  and  timely  attention 
to  religion,  every  expedient  has  been  tried  which 
subtlety  could  devise  ;  eveiy  passion  has  been  en- 
hsted ;  all  the  corrupt  propensities  of  human  nature 
have  been  flattered  and  caressed;  and,  as  if  oui" 
evil  incUnations  were  not  sufficient,  resort  has  been 
had  to  representations  the  most  palpably  erroneous. 
It  has  been  asserted,  that  religion  tends  to  impede 
the  student's  progress  in  science  and  literature. 

This  assertion,  coming  as  it  does  from  those  who 
claim  for  themselves  all  the  hght  of  reason  and  phi- 
losophy, is  well  calculated  to  influence  the  youth  of 
])riUiaut  talents.  He  contemplates,  with  delight  and 
admiration,  the  characters  of  those  whose  genius 
has  thrown  around  them  a  dazzling  lustre.  High 
above  the  region  of  moral  and  political  fluctuations 
he  sees  them  enthroned  on  the  esteem  of  the  world; 
and  crowned  with  garlands,  which,  amidst  the  frost 
of  a  thousand  winters,  perpetually  blossom  and 
flourish.     He  chscovers,  in  that  exalted  station,  many 


RELIGION    NO    OBSTACLE    TO    STUDY       65 

a  vacancy  yet  to  be  filled.  Encouraged  by  promising 
abilities,  and  impelled  by  an  ardent  desire  of  com- 
manding the  admiration  of  his  contemporaries,  and 
the  applause  and  homage  of  posterity,  he  sighs  for 
literaiy  eminence.  He  resolves  to  make  every  exer- 
tion to  gain  some  envied  seat  among  the  illustrious 
objects  of  his  veneration.  But  when  he  thinks  of 
his  duty  to  God,  and  his  obUgation  to  obey  the 
gospel,  he  is  told  that  rehgion  would  blast  liis  fairest 
hopes ;  that  it  is  hostile  to  rational  investigation ;  that 
it  distracts  the  attention  from  scientific  pursuits ;  and 
tliat  it  robs  genius  of  its  splendor. 

Illiberal  and  erroneous  as  this  account  of  Christian- 
ity must  appear  to  every  candid  inquirer,  it  has  had 
many  supporters.  It  lias  been  too  much  beheved  ; 
and,  among  a  certain  class  of  persons,  its  influence 
has  been  gi-eat  and  lamentable. 

So  far,  however,  is  Religion  from  discouraging 
philosophical  inquiry,  that  she  holds  out  to  it  the 
Btrongest  and  most  noble  incentives.  "Which,  we 
would  ask,  has  the  greatest  inducement  to  investiga- 
tion, he  who  ^dews  the  operations  of  the  material 
sj^stem  as  the  contrivance  of  infinite  wisdom  and 
benevolence,  or  he  who  sees  in  that  system  no 
design,  no  superintendmg  Providence,  notliing  but 
a  huge  mass  of  matter  thro^vn  together  by  chance, 
put  in  motion  by  chance,  and  by  chance  liable,  every 
moment,  to  stop  its  movements,  or  to  revert  to  primi- 
tive  chaos,  or  to   sink  into  non-existence  ?     AVhat 

person    has  not   sti'onger  motives  to   analyze   the 
(3# 


66  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

powers,  and  tiace  the  workings  of  a  mind  destined 
to  inunortality,  than  to  perplex  himself  conceraing 
any  nmnber  of  mere  animal  instincts  which  are  soon 
to  perish  forever  ?  Who  would  not  deem  it  more 
important  to  establish  rules  for  the  regulation  of 
bemgs  on  whose  present  conduct  depends  their 
eternal  bUss  or  endless  wo,  than  of  creatiu*es  the 
consequences  of  whose  actions  can  be,  at  most,  but 
temporary  ?  Rehgion,  it  is  true,  never  attempts  to 
teach  earthly  science.  Her  object  is  infinitely  more 
grand  and  unportant.  But  she  appeals  to  reason  for 
proof  of  her  divine  origm.  IMany  truths,  indeed,  she 
discloses,  which  human  sagachy  could  never  have 
ascertained.  But  in  every  declaration  of  hers,  which 
is  not  absolutely  above  their  province,  reason  and 
conscience  echo  to  her  voice. 

Should  it,  at  length,  be  admitted,  that  the  Scriptures 
are  not  at  variance  with  the  language  of  enlightened 
reason,  still  the  votary  of  science  is  told  that  a  devout 
and  scrupulous  attention  to  then*  injimctions,  will  so 
divert  him  fi*om  his  studies  as  to  be  detiimental  to 
his  progress. 

To  prove  the  erroneousness  of  tliis  opmion,  we 
might  only  point  to  many  of  those  who  have  en- 
larged the  boundaries  of  human  knowledge,  and  ask, 
Were  they  not  chsciples  of  Christ?  But,  \\ithout 
adverting  to  those  brightest  lummaries  that  ever 
shone  upon  the  regions  of  science,  Ave  are  willing  to 
rest  our  arguments  upon  the  natural  effect  which 
true  religion  has  upon  the  mind.     To  say  nothing 


RELIGION    NO    OBSTACLE    TO    STUDY.     67 

of  its  preventiug  all  those  excessive  gratifications  of 
the  seiises,  which  are  fatal  alike  to  health  of  body 
and  to  vigor  of  intellect,  what  is  its  immediate  effect 
upon  those  corroding  anxieties  and  restless  passions 
which  distract  the  thoughts?  It  subjects  them  to 
the  dominion  of  reason.  By  moulding  the  will  to 
a  cordial  acquiescence  in  the  di\dne  government, 
it  tranquilhzes  the  soul,  and  prepares  it  for  the 
most  complicated  and  abstruse  investigations.  The 
Chiistian,  if  he  obey  the  dictates  of  his  religion,  attends 
conscientiously  to  the  preservation  of  his  heaitli. 
The  prompt,  and  cheerful,  and  systematic  use  of  all 
the  appropriate  means  of  preserving  it,  he  regards 
as  one  of  his  primary  duties ;  and  the  happy  effect 
upon  his  real  and  lasting  proficiency  must  be  obvi- 
ous. Frequent  relaxation  from  study  is  absolutely 
necessary;  and  the  time  required  to  be  spent  in 
religious  exercises  is  far  from  being  lost,  even  if 
viewed  only  hi  reference  to  the  natural  influence 
upon  intellectual  progi'ess.  Such  exercises,  by  call- 
ing off  the  mind  from  all  perplexing  subjects,  and 
diffusing  over  it  a  dignified  serenity,  enable  the 
Christian  to  resume  his  stuches  with  fresh  vigor  and 
delight.  His  motives  to  diligent  exertion  must 
certainly  be  more  powerful  than  any  which  can 
actuate  the  irreligious.  The  present  world,  viewed 
by  itself,  he  indeed  looks  upon  as  vain  and  transitory. 
But,  considered  as  the  place  allotted  to  prepare  for 
an  endless  state  of  existence,  it  rises  in  his  estima- 
tion to  unspeakable  importance.     Every  day  is  big 


68  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

with  everlasting  consequences.  He  feels  himself 
urged  to  activity  by  the  most  tremendous  considera- 
tions, while  he  hears,  as  the  voice  of  God,  "  Whatso- 
ever thy  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might." 
He  is  sensible  of  duties  devolving  upon  liim,  which 
ai'e  inthnately  connected  with  the  dearest  temporal, 
as  well  as  with  the  etenial  interests  of  himself  and 
of  his  fellow-men.  Emoluments  and  fame,  alluring 
as  they  are  in  themselves,  he  regards  only  as  affording 
him  the  means  of  becoming  extensively  useful,  and 
of  gaining  more  noble  objects.  What  others  view  as 
the  ultimate  reward  of  their  labors,  are  with  him  in- 
ferior considerations,  compared  with  the  great  object 
of  Ms  pursuits.  He  looks  beyond  the  wreath  thai 
entwines  the  brow  of  the  learned.  He  looks  beyond 
the  wealth  and  the  applause  of  the  world.  Ho 
elevates  his  thoughts  to  the  grandeur  of  his  destiny, 
and  seeks  the  approbation  of  his  almighty  Re- 
deemer. 

If,  then,  it  appears  that  religion  is  not  hostile,  but 
friendly  to  scientific  research,  and  that,  instead  of 
diverting  the  student  from  his  pursuits,  it  is  admi- 
rably adapted  to  purify  and  strengthen  his  mind,  and 
excite  him  to  industry,  we  have  now  only  to  mquiro 
into  the  justness  of  the  charge,  that  it  robs  genius  of 
its  splendor. 

The  effect  here  alleged,  it  is  easy  to  perceive, 
must  be  produced  either  by  diminishing  the  range  of 
tliought,  or  by  blunting  the  sensibilities  of  the  souL 
The  first  supposition  is   too  palpably  absurd  to  be 


RELIGION    NO    OBSTACLE    TO    STUDY.     69 

eeriously  maintained.  Religion  presents  scenes  too 
gi'and  for  imagination  to  grasp.  It  furnishes  ideas 
wliich  not  only  fill,  but  expand  and  exalt  the  sub- 
limest  conceptions,  and  will  continue  to  expand  and 
exalt  them  forever.  It  adds  immensity  to  our  pros- 
pects, and  infinity  to  our  existence.  It  is  also  so  far 
from  tending  to  blunt  the  sensibihties  of  the  soul,  that 
it  has  precisely  the  contrary  effect.  By  its  influence 
the  obdurate  heart  is  softened,  and  the  tenderest  sym- 
pathies are  awakened.  Friends  and  companions, 
and  the  whole  human  species,  appear  more  impoitant 
in  the  scale  of  being ;  and,  of  course,  the  social  and 
benevolent  affections  become  more  ardent.  The 
mind  is  prepared  for  enjoying,  in  the  highest  de- 
gree, all  the  pleasures  of  taste.  The  works  of 
nature,  by  being  associated  with  "  the  fii*st  good 
and  the  first  fair,"  appear  vsith  new  beauties  and 
peculiar  charms.  The  passions,  divested  of  all 
tliat  is  hateful,  are  not  destroyed,  but  directed  to 
proper  objects ;  and,  gathering  strength  from  what- 
ever is  beautiful,  affecting,  or  subhme,  they  greatly 
conduce  to  that  ardor  of  feeUng  and  glow  of  devo- 
tion, which  never  fail  to  exalt  the  natural  powers  of 
genius. 

Examples  in  confirmation  of  these  remarks,  were 
it  necessaiy,  might  be  adduced ;  for  they  are  iimu- 
merable.  JMany  of  them  must  be  familiar  to  every 
well-inlbrmed  and  reflecting  mind.  A  vast  multi- 
tude rise  at  once  to  the  view,  eminent  for  religious 
devotion,  and  for  splendor  of  talents.     When  tliis 


70  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

is  reiiienibered  in  connexion  with  tlie  fact  that  the 
whole  number  of  real  Christians  has  ever  been 
email  in  comparison  with  that  of  those  who  have 
been  of  a  different  character,  who  does  not  perceive 
an  evidence  of  the  ennobhng  nature  of  genuine  piety  ? 
And,  with  the  considerations  before  us  wliich  have 
now  been  presented,  who  can  doubt,  that,  whenever 
we  find  Christians  of  but  inferior  parts  or  attain- 
ments, we  ought  to  ascribe  their  inferiority  to  some 
other  cause  than  the  tendency  of  rehgion  ? 


"WILT   THOU    BE   THERE?" 


Wilt  thou  be  there  to  gild  that  mournful  scene, 
When  the  dull  stream  of  life  shall  feebly  flow, 

And  earth  shall  be  as  it  had  never  been, 
With  all  its  mingled  hues  of  joy  and  wo  ? 

Wilt  thou  be  there  when  Friendship's  fervent  clasp, 

And  melting  voice,  and  look,  meet  no  return? 
When  silence  follows  the  convulsive  grasp, 

And  tremblingly  I  reach  that  awful  bourn, 
That  hidden  world,  that  undiscovered  shore, 

Where  the  faint  gleams  of  lingering  life  decay  ; 
And  whence  the  pilgrim  shall  return  no  more 

To  tell  the  sorrows  of  his  lonely  way  ? 
To  raise  my  drooping  hope — to  hear  my  prayer  ?— 
Source  of  undying  light ! — wilt  thou  be  there  ? 

T=  W.  H. 


LINES 


WRITTEN    ON  A   DRAWING    OF    MOUNT    VERNON, 


THE   SEAT   OF   GENERAL    WASHINGTON. 


BY  REV.  WILLIAM  JAY,  BATH. 


There  dwelt  the  man,  the  flower  of  human  kind, 
Whose  visage,  mild,  bespoke  his  nobler  mind. 

There  dwelt  the  soldier,  who  his  sword  ne'er  drew 
Bu^  in  a  righteous  cause,  to  freedom  true. 

There  dwelt  the  hero,  who  ne'er  killed  for  fame 
Yet  gained  more  glory  than  a  Caesar's  name. 

There  dwelt  the  statesman,  who,  devoid  of  art, 
Gave  soundest  counsels  from  an  upright  heart. 

And,  O  Columbia,  by  thy  sons  caressed, 
There  dwelt  the  father  of  the  realms  he  blest"; 
Who  no  wish  felt  to  make  his  mighty  praise, 
Like  other  chiefs,  the  means  himself  to  raise  ; 
But  there,  retiring,  breathed  in  pure  renown, 
And  felt  a  grandeur  that  disdained  a  crown. 


THE  EFFECTUAL  FERVENT  PRAYER 
OF   A  RIGHTEOUS  MAN    AVAILETH 

MUCH." 

James  v.  16. 

by  the  rev.  john  harris. 


All  who  have  made  pretensions  to  religion,  have 
uniformly  assigned  a  distinguished  place  to  the  ex- 
ercise and  efficacy  of  prayer ;  and  even  they  who 
have  practically  renounced  religion,  are  generally 
found,  m  the  hour  of  suffering  or  danger,  to  make 
an  involuntary  effort  to  call  on  the- name  of  the 
Lord.  The  voice  of  nature,  at  such  periods,  over- 
powering the  prejudices  of  irreligion,  wliich  had 
hitherto  silenced  it,  asserts  the  power,  the  presence 
and  the  goodness  of  God,  and  invokes  his  favorable 
interpositions.  But  the  Christian,  taught  by  tliat 
Being  who  is  at  once  the  great  Object  and  Spirit  of 
prayer,  avails  himself  of  this  holy  exercise  as  of  the 
richest  privilege ;  not  that  he  is  always  equally  dis- 
posed to  engage  in  it,  but,  having  acquired  this  habit, 
and  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  prayer,  he  can  never 
allow  himself  to  regard  it  merely  in  the  light  of  an 
arbitraiy  duty,  dangerous  to  be  neglected,  and  there- 
fore necessary  to  be  performed.  It  is  his  meat  and 
7 


74  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

liis  drink,  the  aliment  which  sustains  and  invigorates 
his  spiritual  life  ;  he  values  it  as  the  only  channel  of 
communication  with  his  unseen  and  almighty  Friend ; 
he   regards  it  as  the   instrument  wliich   alhes  his 
weakness  to  the  power  of  God,  and  his  emptmess 
and  unworthiness  to  the  grace  that  is  in  Christ  Jesus. 
The  Scriptures  reveal  the  character  of  a  Being  who 
is  mfinite  in  wisdom,  unchangeable  in  truth,  and  un- 
limited in  power  and   benevolence.     Prayer  alhes 
the  believer  to  all  these  perfections,  and  makes  them 
all  virtually  liis  own.     They  lay  open  to  his  view  the 
economy  of  redemption,  with  all  its  blessings  of  par- 
don, adoption,  and  complete  preparation  for  heaven. 
By  prayer,  the  beUever  appropriates  all  these  bless- 
higs  to  himself;  they  tell  liim  of  a  world  where  all  is 
pure,   and  glorious,  and  happy ;  he  prays,  and  be- 
comes  entitled  to    it,   prepared    for    it,  and    soon 
receives  the  call  to  enter  on  its  richest  joys.     Nor  is 
the  efficacy  of  prayer  confined  to  the  behever  hun- 
self :  it  places  him  in  a  new  relation  to  all  around 
him.   He  was  needy,  and  helpless,  cud  unable  to  take 
a  single  step  toward  the  accomphshment  of  liis  own 
salvation ;  but,  having  acquired  the  habit  of  prayer, 
he  can  contribute  largely  toward  the   salvation  of 
others.    It  is  an  invisible  cord  by  which  he  can  draw 
tliem  toward  heaven;  it  uivests  him  with  an  in- 
definite power  over  the  destiny  and  happiness  of  the 
world  at  large.    Now,  it  is  of  intercessory  prayer 
that  the  apostle  speaks :— "  Confess  your  faults  one 
to  another,  and  pray  one  for  another,  that  you  may 


INTERCESSORY    PRAYER. 


75 


be  healed.  The  eflectual  fei'vent  prayer  of  a  righteous 
man  availeth  much."  x\nd,  having  ilhistrated  the 
truth  of  this  declaration,  by  refening  to  the  prayers  of 
Elijah,  he  concludes  the  epistle  by  saying,  "  Brethren, 
if  any  of  you  do  err  from  the  truth,  and  one  convert 
him,  let  him  know  that  he  who  converteth  the 
sinner  from  the  error  of  his  ways  shall  save  a  soul 
from  deatli,  and  shall  liide  a  midtitude  of  sins ;"  thus 
inthnating  that  the  salvation  of  a  sinner,  and  even  of 
an  apostate,  the  most  hopeless  of  sinners,  is  quite 
within  the  limits  of  prayer,  and  may  be  eifected 
by  it. 

The  text  describes  the  character  aiid  efficacy  of 
genuine  prayer. 

I,  It  describes  the  character  of  prayer. 

5fr  ^  ^  ^  •j^ 

It  is  in\^Tought  by  the  energy  of  the  Spirit. 
This  is  a  characteristic  of  prayer  suggested  by  the 
text;  and  most  abundantly  is  it  confirmed  by  the 
imiversal  experience  of  behevers  and  the  testimony 
of  the  word  of  God : — "  Likewise  the  Spirit  also 
helpeth  our  iafirmities ;  for  we  know  not  what  we 
should  pray  for  as  we  ought ;  but  the  Spirit  itself 
maketh  intercession  for  us  with  groaning  that  cannot 
be  uttered ;  and  he  that  searcheth  the  hearts  knoweth 
what  is  the  mind  of  the  Sphit,  because  he  maketh  in- 
tercession for  the  saints  according  to  the  will  of  God." 
***** 

He  makes  the  behever  a  temple  of  the  Lord,  and 
graciously  takes  upon  himself  the  office  of  con- 


76  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

ducting  the  worship  of  this  temple;  he  becomes 
the  High-priest  and  Intercessor;  he  prepares  and 
presents  to  God  the  welcome  sacrifice  of  a  broken 
and  contrite  heart;  he  calls  the  affections  and 
desires  of  the  soul  away  from  the  world,  and  brmgs 
them,  like  a  company  of  humble  worshippers,  to 
the  throne  of  God,  and  constrains  all  that  is  within 
the  soul  to  bless  his  holy  name.  He  so  regulates 
and  purifies  the  affections  and  desires,  that  they 
become,  in  effect,  his  own  affections  and  desires ;  so 
that,  when  the  behever  gives  utterance  to  them,  the 
almighty  Father  regards  them  as  the  urgent  desires 
of  his  own  Spirit.  Or,  should  the  believer  be  unable 
to  give  full  utterance  to  his  desires ;  should  he  only  be 
able  to  express  them  in  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans, 
he  that  searcheth  the  heart  knoweth  what  is  the 
mind  of  the  Spirit ;  he  that  is  always  lookmg  into 
the  hearts  of  men,  detecting  all  that  is  evil,  and 
discerning  and  approving  all  that  is  good, — he  knows, 
from  the  peculiar  state  of  the  mind,  though  no 
intelhgible  words  have  been  uttered,  that  his  Spirit 
has  been  operatmg  there  ;  he  reads  every  thought, 
understands  every  desire,  and  recognises,  with 
perfect  ease,  that  these  thoughts  and  desires  are  tlie 
well  known  operations  of  his  Spirit ;  they  perfectly 
coincide  with  his  own  divine  will,  and  he  therefore 
gratifies  these  desires  and  fulfils  his  own  will  at  the 
same  time.  Now,  it  is  only  the  utterance  of  such 
desu-es  that  can  be  regarded  as  genuine  prayer ;  it 
is  only  such  as  have  been  excited  and  presented  by 


INTERCESSORY    PRAYER.  // 

the  great  Intercessor  within  us,  that  the  Almighty 
does  or  can  regard.  These  alone,  as  they  arise  fi'om 
a  sense  of  need,  and  of  the  magnitude  of  the  bless- 
ings sought,  vdU.  be  expressed  and  urged  Avith 
becoming  earnestness.  We  are  naturally  in  the 
condition  of  Elijah  when  his  altar  and  offering  were 
immersed  in  water;  the  fire  of  heaven  must  de- 
scend, or  we  shall  thus  remain  mimersed. 

It  is  only  in  proportion  as  the  Spmt  puts  forth  liis 
energy  -sAithin,  that  we  put  forth  our  energy  at  the 
throne  of  grace,  and  present  the  inwrought  fervent 
prayer  of  a  righteous  man. 

II.  When  the  apostle  declares  that  prayer  of  this 
description  availeth  much,  he  states  the  efficacy  of 
prayer.  Like  every  other  means,  prayer  depends, 
for  its  efficacy,  on  the  sovereign  appointment  of 
God ;  but,  in  the  whole  compass  of  divinely  appoint- 
ed means,  prayer  occupies  the  liighest  place,  and 
possesses  the  mightiest  efficacy.  Passing  by  all 
inferior  objects,  all  created  agency,  it  makes  a  direct 
appeal  to  the  throne  of  God ;  and  it  appeals  to  him  in 
a  manner  and  through  a  medium  which  has  never 
failed — in  the  name  and  for  the  sake  of  his  only- 
begotten  Son.  It  enables  the  behever  to  take  hold 
of  his  almighty  strength ;  it  identifies  him  with  the 
Almight}" ;  and  so  closely  identifies  him,  that  the 
voice  of  God  declares,  "  He  that  toucheth  you  touch- 
eth  the  apple  of  mine  eye :"  it  gives  liim  immediate 
access  to  the  treasury  of  the  divine  benevolence,  so 

that,  even  in  this  world  of  danger  and  sin,  he  can 

7# 


78  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

not  only  ward  off  and  suspend  around  him  every 
evil,  but  lie  can  encompass  himself  with  every  good, 
as  though  he  possessed  an  omnipotent  charm;  he 
can  create  around  him  an  atmosphere  of  joy  and 
happiness;  it   gives   him   access  to   the  armory  of 
God,  and  to  all  his  resources  of  strength ;  so  that, 
like  the  angel  which  had  the  key  of  the  bottomless 
pit  and  a  gi-eat  chain  in  his  hand,  he  can  fetter  the 
operations  and  restrain  the  poAver  of  the  prince  of 
darlmess,  or  he  can  enter  the  field  of  conflict,  and 
overpower  him.     It  has  been  said  that  the  smallest 
pebble  cannot  be   thrown  into  the   seas  from  our 
shores  without  producing  some  effect  on  the  other 
side    of   the   great  Atlantic ;    but,  without  waiting 
to  examine  the  truth  of  diis  assertion,  it  is  only  sober 
and  undeniable  truth  to  assert,  that  the    humblest 
Christian   cannot   offer   a   single   breath  in  prayer, 
which  does  not  reach  the  throne  of  God,  and  become 
productive   of   effects  which   spread    through   the 
universe.     "  If  ye  abide  m  me,"  said  Jesus,  "  and 
my  words  abide  in  you,  ye  shall  ask  what  ye  will, 
and  it  shall  be  done  unto  you."    Here  is  an  unlimited 
promise  ;  and  it  cannot  be  pleaded  in  faitli  without 
producmg  unlimited   effects.     But  the  text   directs 
our  attention  particularly  to   the   eflicacy  of  inter- 
cessory prayer.     And  here  we  are  at  once  reminded 
of  the  numerous  instances  of  its  power,  recorded, 
doubtless  for  our  encouragement,  in  the  Avord  of 
God.     Sodom  and  the  cities  of  the  plain  are  to  be 
burnt  from  tlie   face   of  the   earth  ;  but  what   is  it 


INTERCESSORY    PRAYER.  79 

which  for  a  time  delays  theu*  doom,  and  gives  them, 
humanly  speaking,  a  probability  of  escape  ?  It  is 
the  intercession  of  Abraham  pleading  with  God,  that 
fifty,  or  forty,  or  thirty,  or  twenty,  or  at  least  ten 
righteous  men  might  be  found  there.  The  Israehtes 
have  made  a  molten  image  at  the  foot  of  the  very 
mount  on  which  the  glory  of  God  has  descended. 
"  And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  I  have  seen  tliis 
people,  and,  behold,  it  is  a  stiff-necked  people  ;  now, 
therefore,  let  me  alone,  that  my  wrath  may  wax  hot 
against  them,  that  I  may  consume  them."  And 
what  coidd  allay,  at  tliis  fearful  moment,  the  fierce- 
ness of  his  anger  ?  What  could  restrain  him  from 
destroying  them  with  the  breath  of  his  nostrils  ? 
The  fervent,  the  impassioned  intercession  of  Moses. 
It  held  back  liis  uphfted  arm ;  it  changed  the  pm-- 
pose  of  his  heart ;  "  and  the  Lord  repented  of  the 
evil  which  lis  thought  to  do  to  liis  people."  Again 
they  incurred  his  displeasure  by  their  rebelhous 
discontent,  "  and  the  fire  of  the  Lord  burnt  among 
them,  and  consumed  them ;  and  the  people  cried 
unto  ]Moses,  and,  when  Moses  prayed  unto  the  Lord, 
the  fire  was  quenched." 

Again  they  revolt,  and  mm-mur  against  the  Lord ; 
"  and  he  said  unto  3Ioses,  How  long  will  this 
people  provoke  me  ?  I  will  smite  them  with  the  pes- 
tilence, and  disinherit  them,  and  will  make  of  thee 
a  greater  nation,  and  mightier  than  they."  But  again 
this  intercessor  prayed  for  them  ;  and  the  Lord  said 
"I  have  pardoned  them  according  to  thy  word." 


80  THE   CHRISTIAN   OFFERING. 

"Elias  was  a  man  subject  to  like  passions  as  we  are ; 
and  he  prayed  earnestly  that  it  might  not  rain,  and  it 
rauied  not  on  the  earth  by  the  space  of  three  years 
and  six  months;  and  he  prayed  again,  and  the 
heaven  gave  rain,  and  the  earth  brought  forth 
fruit." 

Prayer  has  suspended  and  controlled  the  elements 
and  operations  of  nature ;  it  has  procured  the 
ministry  of  angels ;  it  has  quenched  the  violence  of 
fire  that  came  forth  from  the  Lord ;  it  has  arrest- 
ed the  progress  of  almighty  displeasure ;  hke  the 
great  Object  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  it  operates 
silently  and  unseen,  but  irresistibly  and  universally. 
It  has  proved  its  unlimited  efficacy  in  turning  the 
sinner  from  the  eiTor  of  his  ways,  and  saving  a  soul 
from  death.  This  is  the  greatest,  the  most  glorious 
triumph  which  it  can  achieve.  It  has  raised  the 
dead  in  sin,  and  brought  the  light  of  heaven  into  the 
benighted  soul,  and  subdued  the  enmity  and  hostility 
with  which  it  was  anned  ;  it  has  aiTested  the  sinner 
at  the  gates  of  hell,  transformed  Mm,  and  lifted  him 
up  to  the  joys  of  heaven ;  it  has  saved  his  soul 
1.  om  death  :  and  who,  that  has  not  looked  into  the 
region  of  perdition,  that  has  not  felt  the  gnawmg  of 
the  undying  worm,  and  the  raging  of  the  quenchless 
fire,  can  tell  the  meaning  of  that  expression  ?  It 
has  instrumentally  raised  hhn  to  the  enjoyment  of 
heaven :  and  who,  that  has  not  been  caught  up  to 
the  third  heaven,  and  beheld  the  unveiled  glory 
of  the  Lamb,  and  heard  the  hymnings  of  the  blessed, 


INTERCESSORY    PRAYER.  81 

and  drank  of  the  river  of  the  water  of  hfe,  can  esti- 
mate fitly  the  import  of  that  expression  ?  But  this  is 
not  all  that  intercessory  prayer  could  effect ; — its  full 
efficacy  is  unknown ;  for  it  has  never  been  tried. 
Like  the  elements  of  nature,  it  contains  a  power 
wliich,  if  put  forth  to  the  utmost,  would  infallibly 
change  the  face  of  the  earth  :  and  the  day  is  hasten- 
ing on,  when  its  efficacy  shall  be  tried  on  a  scale 
before  unknown;  for  all  flesh  shall  come  to  pray 
before  the  Lord ;  and  then  it  shall  be  found,  that  to 
pray  is  to  use  the  mightiest  instrument  for  the  conver- 
sion of  the  world.  Nor  let  us  be  deterred  from  tiying 
the  efficacy  of  intercessory  prayer  by  the  fear  of 
failm-e.  Our  success  may  not  equal  our  desires ;  but 
let  us  unpress  it  on  our  minds,  that  our  prayer,  if 
earnest  and  hnportimate,  availeth  much.  It  may  not 
procure  for  the  object  of  our  sohcitude  the  desired 
good  ;  but  it  may  avert  from  him  numerous  evils ; 
and,  if  so,  it  availeth  much.  It  may  not  avail  bim 
so  soon  as  our  impatience  would  dictate;  but, 
finally,  it  will  avail,  and  avail  him  much.  It  will 
avail  him  more  than  any  other  means  or  instrument 
we  can  employ  in  his  behalf.  Yes !  let  it  encourage 
us  to  persevere  in  prayer,  when  we  reflect  that,  of 
aU  the  instruments  with  which  God  has  intrusted  us 
for  the  benefit  of  the  world,  prayer  is  incompara- 
bly the  most  efficacious.  "  The  effectual  fervent 
prayer  of  a  righteous  man  availeth  much;"  how 
much,  the  day  of  judgment  alone  can  fully  disclose. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    BY    THE   REV.   WILLIAM    JAY,   OF   BATH, 

ON  A  VISIT  TO  HIS  NATIVE  VILLAGE    (TISBURY), 
IN  AUGUST,  1800. 

The  way  by  which  a  gracious  God 

Has  led  me  all  my  days, 
Demands,  on  each  review,  a  song 

Of  wonder  and  of  praise. 

His  care,  attending  every  step, 

Was  my  perpetual  guide ; 
His  ear,  attentive,  heard  my  prayer  ; 

His  hand  my  wants  supplied. 

The  course  through  wliich  my  journey  ran 

Was  winding  and  unknovni ; 
His  Providence  the  scenes  had  planned. 

And  each  appeared  his  own. 

More,  now,  since  first  I  left  the  spot, 
Than  twice  eight  years  have  fled, 

And  many,  once  who  charmed  my  youth, 
Are  numbered  "svith  the  dead. 


LINES    BY    REV.  WM.  JAY.  ^3 

'Twas  here  I  drew  my  native  breath, 

Here  fled  my  mfant  liours, 
Here  first  I  heard  the  gospel  sound, 

And  felt  its  heavenly  powers. 

Now  o'er  my  former  walks  I  rove, 

And  ii-esh  the  scenes  appear  ; 
And  here  I  poured  an  aitless  prayer, 

And  there  indulged  a  tear. 

Unknovm  to  fortune  and  to  fame. 

My  early  years  expired ; 
No  science  had  enriched  my  mind, 

Or  hope  my  bosom  fired. 

But  Heaven  a  Winter  thus  addressed : 

"  This  youth  I  charge  on  thee ; 
Go,  take  him ;  I  the  impulse  gave  ; 

And  bring  him  up  for  me. 

"  Awaken  thou  each  dormant  power, 

Chase  every  cloud  away, 
And  on  his  imderstanding  pour. 

An  intellectual  day." 

The  tree  which,  in  a  barren  soil, 

Can  no  good  produce  bear, 
Transposed,  may  flourish,  and  with  fruit 

Repay  the  dresser's  care. 


84  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Winter,  I  love  to  think  of  thee, 
And  those  dear  hours  review, 

When,  in  thy  house,  and  from  thy  hps, 
I  sacred  wisdom  ch-ew. 

Thy  Hfe,  enforcing  all  thy  rules, 

Shed  every  grace  abroad, 
And  thine  example,  all  alive, 

Portrayed  the  man  of  God. 

Nor  would  I  now  the  blessings  lose, 
Which  from  thy  care  have  flowed, 

For  all  the  schools  of  fame  have  given, 
Or  colleges  bestowed. 

Here,  O  my  soul,  the  time  recall 
When  my  commission  came, 

How  blessed,  when  sixteen  years  had  rolled 
To  preach  a  Saviour's  name. 

Poor  Abington,  among  thy  sons. 

The  shepherds  of  the  plam. 
My  first  attempt  to  preach  was  made, 

Nor  was  it  made  in  vain. 

The  cloudy  pillar  leading  on, 

Its  motions  I  pursued. 
Till  o'er  the  city  famed  for  cures 

The  holy  symbol  stood. 


LINES    BY    REV.  WM.  JAY.  85 

"  Here,"  cried  the  voice,  "  thy  station  fix, 

Aiid  here  thy  rovings  end  ; 
Here  teach  the  words  of  endless  life, 

And  here  my  charge  attend. 

"  Proclaim  a  fountain  nobler  far 

Than  tliis  Bethesda  knows  ; 
It's  always  open,  always  free, 

And  ^vith  salvation  flows. 

"  The  sons  of  pleasure  here  who  come 

Invite  to  real  bliss ; 
He  who  another  life  secures 

Can  only  relish  this. 

"  Here  Satan's  seat  exalted  stands, 

And  vice  in  triumph  reigns : 
A  crown  for  him  who  owns  me  here. 

And  all  my  truth  maintains !" 

O  Lord,  evince  the  choice  thine  own, 
Which  placed  me  where  I  move ; 

And,  while  thy  people  feel  thy  power, 
May  one  a  thousand  prove  ! 

Here  I  return,  increased  and  blest 

By  all-indulgent  Heaven : 
My  God  the  joys  of  wedded  love. 

And  children,  too,  has  given. 

8  ^ 


86  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Yonder  appears,  by led, 

My  lovely  train  in  view ! 
My  cherubs,  round  your  mother  play ; 

Tliis  scene  shall  end  witli  you. 

To  raise  an  Ebenezer  here. 

My  God,  is  surely  just; 
The  motto,  "  Praise  for  all  the  past, 

And  for  the  future,  trust !" 


THE  CHRISTIAN. 


No  victor's  wreath  adorned  his  humble  brow ; 

On  him  no  grateful  nation  proudly  smiled ; 
With  noiseless  steps,  he  traced  his  way  below, 

Or  through  the  flowery  mead,  or  dreary  wild. 

Patient,  unmoved,  amid  the  varying  scene, 

His  heart,  and  hope,  and  converse,  were  above; 

In  all  the  storms  of  grief,  resigned,  serene, 
Held  in  the  arms  of  everlasting  love.^ 

Speak,  ye  who  stood  around  him  in  that  hour. 

When,  faint  and  pale,  he  breathed  his  farewell  sigh, 

Wlien  hope's  full  bud  was  bursting  into  flower, 

When  light,  when  heaven,  was  dawning  on  his  eye; 

Say  how  he  smiled,  and  pain  and  death  defied, 

Struggled  to  tell  his  mighty  joys — and  died. 

T.  W.  H. 


LINES 

COMPOSED    BY   THE    REV.  DR.  RYLAND, 
THE    DAY    BEFORE    HIS    DEATH,    APRIL,    1825. 

Though  often  my  mind  is  dejected, 

Yet  will  I  not  dare  to  repine ; 
My  trials,  I  know,  are  selected 

By  wisdom  and  mercy  divine. 

My  Father's  severest  correction 

Shall  work,  in  the  end,  for  my  good ; 

Nor  ought  I  to  doubt  his  affection, 
Though  all  be  not  yet  understood. 

Whatever  to  him  brings  me  nearer. 
From  earth  and  from  sin  weans  my  heart. 

Makes  Christ  and  his  Spirit  still  dearer, 
I  ought  to  receive  in  good  part. 

I  know  what  perverse  contradiction 
My  dearest  Redeemer  once  shared ; 

And  light  is  my  present  affliction 
Witli  joy  everlasting  compared. 


LINES    BY    REV.  DR.  RYLAND.  89 

Though  never  with  evil  infected, 

Yet,  oh !  how  afflicted  was  he ! 
Despised  by  men,  and  rejected. 

And  wounded  and  bruised  for  me  ! 

'Tis  surely  enough  for  the  servant 

To  share  the  same  fate  with  his  Lord ; 

Were  my  zeal  and  affection  more  fervent, 
Wliat  suffering  for  him  would  be  hard  ? 

The  conflict  will  shortly  be  ended ; 

The  conquest  and  crown  are  at  hand ; 
When  I,  to  his  kingdom  ascended, 

Secure  in/  his  presence  shall  stand. 

That  happiness  daily  expecting, 

In  patience  my  soul  I  possess, 
And,  earth  and  its  shadows  rejecting, 

To  glory  eternal  would  press. 

8* 


THE   SPREAD   OF   THE   GOSPEL. 


BY    THE    REV.    S.    P.    HILL. 

To  a  mind  that  reflects  much  on  the  present  con 
dition  of  mankmd,  and  longs  to  have  it  better  than 
it  now  is,  nothing  can  be  more  truly  delightful  than 
the  bright  hopes  and  glorious  visions  which  the 
gospel  paints  on  the  future  prospects  of  the  world. 
It  finds  not,  throughout  its  whole  range  of  intellec- 
tual and  scientific  pursuit,  a  subject  so  congenial  to 
its  most  exalted  capacities,  or  so  gi"ateful  to  its 
loftiest  aspirations.  We  feel,  while  contemplating 
this  theme,  that  we  are  standing  on  solid  ground  ; 
that  we  are  giving  to  our  powers  their  best  exercise  ; 
that  we  are  gi-asping  at  something  substantial ;  and 
that  we  are  entering  a  field  of  research  which 
promises  to  the  soul  unlimited  expansion.  We 
])ehokl,  in  the  object  of  our  meditations,  the  im- 
bodied  beauties,  the  living,  breatliiug  energies  of  the 
most  powerful  creations  of  genius  and  imagina- 
tion ;  the  real  existence  of  all  the  beautiful  forms 
of  happiness  and  peace  which  ever  philosophers 
have  described  or  poets  sung. 

It  cannot   be  doubted,  that  principles,  which   so 
vitally  affect  the  destinies  of  the  race,  should  take  a 


SPREAD    OF    THE    GOSPEL.  91 

deep  hold  of  the  best  sympathies  of  the  human  heart. 
We  love  them  for  the  happy  and  cheermg  contrast 
they  afford  to  the  selfishness,  passion  and  animosities 
which  meet  the  retrospective  eye,  to  the  farthest 
limit  of  vision.  We  love  them  for  then-  adapteduess 
to  the  noble  and  capacious  poAvers  of  the  soul.  We 
love  them  for  their  fitness  to  gratify  the  most  un- 
bounded desires  of  domg  good.  We  love  them  for 
their  tranquilhzing  and  holy  influence,  for  their 
blissful  hopes,  and  for  their  glorious  rewards.  The 
cause  of  Christianity  we  beUeve  to  be  the  cause  of 
truth,  of  principle,  of  human  happiness,  and  of  God. 
We  bring  to  its  altar  our  highest  admiration,  our 
choicest  energies  and  our  warmest  zeal.  Inter- 
woven, then,  as  are  our  dearest  hopes  with  its 
success ;  committed  to  it  as  is  the  warmtli  of  our 
affections, — we  pause  to  contemplate  some  of  the 
evidences  of  its  imiversal  triumph. 

We  recognise  a  cheermg  indication  of  this  glori- 
ous result,  in  the  enlargement  of  views  which  is 
obtaming  on  the  social,  and  political  relations  of 
man.  The  narrow  and  stinted  views  entertained  by 
Voltaire  are  now  fro^^iied  upon  with  deserved  con- 
tempt. Mankind  are  beginning  to  see,  that  they  are 
dependent  beings;  and  that  society  advances,  and 
wealth  increases,  in  proportion  as  all  are  prosperous 
alike ;  that,  in  fact,  the  whole  human  family  have 
common  ties  and  common  interests ;  and  that,  con- 
sequently, the  surest  guarantee  of  individual  and 
national  prosperity,  is  the  good  of  the  whole.     Such 


92  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

views  must  have  a  tendency  to  bind  men  together 
in  one  friendly  and  endearing  brotherhood;  and, 
when  they  shall  become  general,  the  prejudices  and 
anmiosities,  which  have  hitherto  "  made  enemies  of 
nations,"  will  be  extinguished  and  forgotten.  And 
we  think,  that  we  have  already,  in  the  happy  ten- 
dency of  such  views,  a  pledge  of  the  auspicious  in- 
fluence they  are  destined  in  future  to  exert.  The 
intercourse  which  is  now  spreading  so  wddely 
between  the  nations  of  the  earth,  is  continually 
developing  among  them  more  close  and  interesting 
relations,  and  awakening  a  spirit  of  more  enlarged 
benevolence.  Now,  we  need  not  be  told  of  the 
exact  coincidence  between  these  views  and  the 
precepts  of  Christianity ;  nor  do  we  need  proof  that 
these  very  principles,  which  are  found  to  harmonize 
so  well  with  the  best  interests  of  man,  and  to  which 
pliilosophers,  after  the  severest  thought,  have  been 
forced  to  come,  may  be  traced  to  the  Bible  as  their 
legitimate  source.  And  it  is  a  fact  that  is  fraught 
with  the  highest  interest,  and  which  utters  an 
irresistible  voice  in  favor  of  that  precious  volume, 
tliat  its  insti'uctions  are  as  much  now  in  the  advance 
of  society  as  they  were  when  they  were  first 
promulgated :  and  hence  we  infer,  that,  as  hght  and 
knowledge  advance,  these  \vill  be  universally  re- 
ceived and  venerated. 

Again ;  it  will  be  admitted  by  every  one,  that  there 
are  certain  vuiues  essential  to  the  existence  of  every 
good   government;  such  as  frugaUty,  industry,  in- 


SPREAD    OF    THE    GOSPEL.  '   93 

telligence,  and  moral  confidence.  Where,  then,  do 
these  virtues  find  then-  happiest  soil  ?  What  is  the 
vital  principle,  which  gives  them  their  activity  and 
support  ?  For  an  answer  to  these  iaquiries,  we  ap- 
jjeal  to  fact.  Survey  the  mass  of  the  world,  and 
wherever  you  behold  any  thing  dehghtful  in  social 
order,  endeai-ing  in  kind  affections,  subhme  in  just 
government,  or  cheering  in  domestic  comfort, — 
there  you  may  recognise  an  ardent  attachment  to 
the  precepts  of  the  gospel.  Turn  to  a  land  on  which 
the  light  of  revelation  has  never  shone,  and  all  is  over- 
spread with  desolateness  and  unbroken  night.  Go  to 
those  comitries  of  moral  darkness,  on  w  hich  only  a 
few  rays  of  gospel  hght  have  yet  been  thrown,  and  the 
contrast  is  as  striking  as  impressive.  Here  you  may 
behold  the  beauty  of  holiness,  shining  amid  the 
wilderness  of  foul  and  fiendlike  atrocities.  The 
voice  of  pious  affection,  and  the  meUow  ed  tone  of 
Christian  gratitude,  will  meet  your  delighted  ear 
from  the  side  of  aU  that  is  unkind,  and  revengefiil, 
and  malignant,  m  savage  passions.  You  may  be- 
hold fields  reposing  in  peace  and  clothed  with 
verdure,  amid  vast  tracts  of  entire  sterihty.  But,  to 
come  nearer  home,  what  gives  vigor  to  our  pur- 
poses, loveliness  to  our  endearments,  w^armth  to  our 
afiections,  and  elevation  to  our  hopes  ?  Why  waits 
your  child  around  your  dying  couch,  with  noiseless 
tread,  with  tender  assiduity,  and  with  sofl;ened  tones 
of  sympathetic  kindness  ?  Why  looks  not  here  the 
eye  of  the  mother  on  the  immolation  of  her  infant  ? 


94  THE  ciiiiirrriAX  offering. 

Why  do  toe  not  throw  our  bodies  beneath  the  car  of 
an  idol  god?  Whence  the  difference  between  the 
refined  poUteness  of  a  Christian  assembly  and  the 
savage  yell  of  a  Hindoo  sacrifice,  or  the  infernal 
ci'uelty  of  the  Roman  amphitheatre?  For  this  and 
for  all  the  improvement  which  history  traces  on 
the  face  of  society,  since  the  Christian  era,  the  Gospel 
claims  the  sole  honor,  and  shows  on  her  credentials 
the  stamp  and  signature  of  heaven.  What,  then, 
may  we  not  hope  for  the  extension  of  principles  so 
truly  benevolent,  so  preeminently  pure  ? 

But  much  has  already  been  done  in  subduing  the 
passions,  and  overthrowing  the  idolatrous  practices 
of  the  heathen:  and  hence  we  discern  another 
pleasing  vision  of  the  future.  On  this  point  we 
cannot  speak  without  admiration.  Let  an  estimate 
be  made,  on  common  principles,  of  the  chances  of 
success  that  would  attend  the  introduction  of  the 
gospel  among  the  heathen ;  and  when  we  take  into 
account  their  savageness  and  extreme  degradation  ; 
their  jealousy  of  foreigners  ;  their  inflexible  attach- 
ment to  the  customs  and  superstitious  rites  of  their 
country ;  their  shrewd  and  cavilling  disposition ;  and 
then  thousand  abominable  vices  sanctioned  by  their 
law,  and  grown  inveterate  by  indulgence ; — ^besides 
aJl  this,  when  we  consider  the  apparently  insuperable 
difficulties  which  are  in  the  way  of  a  missionary 
before  he  can  even  gain  access  to  them,  and  the  many 
obstacles  which  are  constantly  impeding  his  path 
afterwards ; — ^let  any  one    determine  whether  any 


SPIIEAD    OF    THE    GOSPEL.  95 

moral  change  could  be  effected  iii  such  a  people  by 
any  thing  short  of  ahnighty  and  creative  power. 
And  this  power  has  been  exerted.  We  have  seen  it 
exiiibiting  its  divinest  effects  in  renovating,  stubborn 
and  obdui'ate  though  it  be,  the  heart  of  the  savage 
idolater.  Amid  the  ice-bound  shores  of  Greenland ; 
in  tiie  burning  chines  of  Africa  and  India ;  on  the 
lonely  islands  of  the  Pacific ;  in  our  own  western 
forests, 

"  Where  rolls  Ohio's  streams,  Missouri's  floods, 

Beneath  the  umbrage  of  eternal  woods. 

The  Indian  roved  a  hunter-warrior  wild  : 

On  him  the  everlasting-  gospel  smiled ; 

His  heart  was  awed,  confounded,  pierced,  subdued, 

Divinely  melted,  moulded,  and  renewed  : 

The  base,  bold  savage,  nature's  harshest  clod, 

Rose  from  the  dust,  the  image  of  his  God." 

It  would  be  interesting,  in  illustration  of  this 
particular,  to  trace  the  progress  of  the  Gospel  amid 
fiery  trials  and  distresses,  amid  tears  and  blood,  and 
to  contemplate  her  glorious  triumphs  over  all ;  to 
witness  her  emerging  from  clouds  which  had 
gathered  fearfully  round  her,  and  threatened  to  shut 
in  her  last  rays, — fah-er  and  brighter  than  before, 
and  pouring,  vnth  more  intensitj^,  on  the  world  her 
holy  and  renovating  light.  But  we  pass  from  these 
reflections  to  glance  only  for  a  moment  to  that 
of  encouragement,  on  which,  as  on  adamantine 
pillars,  our  hopes  of  the  universal  spread  of  the 
gospel  rest.  We  refer  to  the  promise  of  God. 
Passages  relating  to  this  glorious  result  are  inter- 


96  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

woven  throughout  every  prophecy,  and  form  a 
distinguishing  part  of  the  whole  vohnne  of  reva- 
elation.  How  striking  and  impressive  are  the 
prospects  of  the  gospel  thus  made  to  appear !  Every 
desire  we  express,  every  effort  we  make,  for  the 
extension  of  divine  truth,  finds  in  God's  ovni  designs 
of  mercy  a  sympathetic  response ;  and  for  their 
gi'atification  his  own  word  is  solemnly  pledged. 

Here,  then,  we  gi-ound  our  hopes  of  the  future. 
We  cherish,  in  consequence  of  these  evidences,  a 
belief  which  nothing  can  shake,  that  the  gospel  is 
destined  to  produce  a  most  wonderful  moral  revolu- 
tion in  the  rehgious,  intellectual  and  economic  con- 
dition of  man  ;  that  its  influence  is  to  widen  and 
deepen,  till  the  whole  world  shall  become  a  moun- 
tain of  hohness,  and  a  habitation  for  God.  In  the 
language  of  Foster,  "What  limit  may  a  devout 
observer  affix  to  his  expectations  ?  With  the  picture 
on  his  imagination,  of  the  heathen  world,  as  pre- 
served authentic  descriptions  will  agi'ee  m  represent- 
ing it,  he  may  look  over  the  ample  region,  to  wonder 
what  has  become  of  that  direful  element,  which  was 
once  perceived  pervading  and  corrupting  the  whole 
wide  diffusion  of  mental  and  moral  existence.  The 
dusky  visages,  the  attire,  the  structures  of  habitations, 
the  grand  features  of  nature,  will  be  seen  the  same ; 
but  a  horrid  something,  composed  of  hes,  and  crimes, 
and  curses,  and  w^oes,  that  did  rest  its  deadly 
possession  over  all  the  land,  will  be  broken  up  and 
gone.     Where  has    a  place  been  found,  for  what 


SPREAD    OF    THE   GOSPEL.  97 

occupied,  for  ages  and  ages,  so  many  cities,  and 
villages,  and  houses,  and  minds?  What  tempest 
has  driven  it  away?  What  presence  has  been 
here  wliicli  that  presence  could  not  abide  ? 

"  How  will  he  exult  in  the  palpable  evidence,  that 
the  Son  of  God  has  spread  his  dominion  from  the 
soutliern  shores  towards  the  subUme  mountain 
boundary  of  the  region  on  the  north ;  that  the  oracles 
of  truth  have  taken  place  of  the  most  silly,  and 
loathsome,  and  monstrous  legends,  with  which  the 
father  of  lies  ever  made  contemptuous  sport  of 
the  folly  of  his  dupes ;  £ind  that  the  new  rehgion, 
admitted  in  faith,  has  crowned  itself  and  its  be- 
lievers with  all  its  appropriate  vutues  !" 
9 


A   YEAR  OF   LIFE. 


BY    THE    REV.    JOHN    NEWTON    BROWN. 


I  HAVE  closed  another  year  of  life, 

And  commenced  anew  to-day  ; 
And  I  fain  would  mark  my  spirit's  strife, 

To  maintain  her  heaven- ward  way. 

Her  heaven-ward  w^ay !  And  can  it  be, 
That  to  heaven  my  path- way  tends  ? 

That,  with  calm  and  devoted  constancy, 
Toward  heaven  my  footstep  bends  ? 

It  does,  it  does,  through  richest  grace ! — 

Though,  from  that  blessed  goal, 
A  wandering  path  I  sometunes  trace, 

Yet  God  restores  my  soul. 

Oh  !  let  me  weep  over  every  track 

Of  en*or  that  mars  my  way ; 
And  rear  to  the  love  that  has  brought  me  back^ 

A  monument  to-day ! 


A    YEAR    OF    LIFE.  99 

Another  and  most  eventful  year 

Its  hurried  flight  has  fled ; 
And  many  a  change,  m  its  swift  career, 

It  has  poui-ed  upon  my  head. 

She  who  rose  with  me  side  by  side, 

In  childliood's  sweetest  hours, — 
"Who  led  me,  with  a  sister's  pride, 

Through  learning's  fragrant  bowers, — 

She  who  before  me  so  early  walked, 

In  rehgion's  holy  ways, 
And  with  cheering  voice  of  affection  talked. 

In  the  blest  Redeemer's  praise, — 

Whose  example  w^as  like  an  inspiring  breath, 

For  years,  amid  peril's  dread, — 
And  whose  smile  came  bright  through  the  cloud 
of  death, — 

Now  rests  in  her  clay-cold  bed. 

When  last  IMay  came,  \^dth  her  laughing  hours, 

Others  might  jom  the  ling ; 
But  my  sister  was  crowned  with  the  deathless 
flowei-s 

Of  an  everlasting  spring. 

She  is  gone  to  our  "  Father's  house"  above, 

Where  her  heart  had  gone  before  ; 
And  she  dwells  in  the  hght  of  that  holy  love, 

^Vhich  at  distance  we  adore. 


100  THE   CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

So,  one  by  one,  do  my  friends  depart. 

So  leave  me  my  kindred  all ; 
And  in  accents  that  pierce  my  inmost  heart, 

Comes  God's  most  solemn  call. 

Ye  cherished  ones,  who  have  gone  before, 
Though  your  names  I  may  not  tell, 

Till  we  meet  again  on  a  pangless  shore, 
A  sweet,  but  brief  farewell ! 


THE  RESURRECTION   HOPE. 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  FRIEND. 

I  HEARD  thee  :  not  the  seraph's  strain 
Could  wake  such  raptures  in  my  breast ; 

Thy  prayer  could  ease  the  bed  of  pain, 
And  soothe  the  struggling  soul  to  rest. 

I  loved  thee :  not  the  mountain's  brow 
More  gladly  caught  day's  youngest  beam 

Than  I  thy  smile :  'tis  vanished  now — 
A  brief  delight,  a  lovely  dream. 

Avails  it  that  thy  mantling  bloom 

Hath  left  thee  m  this  lonely  cell  ? 
Avails  it  that  death's  darkening  gloom 

Hath  dimmed  those  eyes  where  love  should 
dwell  ? 

That  cheek  shall  wear  a  fairer  hue. 

When  risen  from  this  yielding  sod ; 
Those  eyes  shall  wear  a  softer  blue, 

Love,  in  the  paradise  of  God  ! 

T  .W.  H. 

9» 


THE  CONVICT'S  FRIEND. 


In  no  instance  has  Christian  benevolence  and 
genuine  philanthropy,  in  this  country,  fallen  farther 
behind  its  developement  in  the  old  world,  than  in 
efforts  for  the  benefit  of  prison  convicts.  Nearly 
half  a  century  after  Howard  commenced  the  humble 
couree  of  inspection  and  reformation  of  prisons, 
which  gradually  enlarged  itself  into  a  system  of  the 
most  splendid  and  benign  charity  which  has  ever 
been  so  completely  exhibited  by  any  individual,  and 
wliich  cannot  fail  to  give  deathless  celebrity  to  his 
name,  no  systematic  or  general  effort  had  been 
made,  in  this  country,  to  detect  hke  abuses,  and 
introduce  like  reforms.  The  name  and  the  efforts 
of  the  Transatlantic  philantlu'opist  were  indeed  well 
known.  Poetry  had  here  woven  garlands  for  his 
brow ;  and  Eloquence,  both  in  the  pulpit  and  in  the 
halls  of  legislation,  had  not  forgotten  to  adorn  her 
offerings  by  the  rehearsal  of  his  peerless  deeds. 
But,  for  all  practical  pui-jjoses  connected  with  the 
sphere  of  his  labors,  the  light  of  his  experience  had 
been  shed  on  us  in  vain. 

Was  it  because  the  abuse  and  pei-version  which 
his  perseverance  had  unmasked  was  supposed  to  be 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEXD.  103 

possible  only  in  older  and  more  corrupt  communities 
than  our  own,  that  we  so  complacently  presumed 
there  was  here  no  room  for  improvement  ?  Let  the 
dark  catalogue  of  abuses,  brought  to  hglit  within  the 
last  few  years,  tell  how  erroneous  was  that  pre- 
sumption. 

Was  it  because  the  Christian  compassion  wliich 
yearned  over  the  heathen — alienated  from  happiness 
and  God,  and  shut  up  m  the  gloomy  prison  of 
pagan  darkness — had  no  kind  sensibUities  for  those 
scarcely  less  ignorant,  and  ahenated  more  fearfully 
from  all  that  is  good,  in  the  prisons  at  our  very  doors  ? 
Or  had  those  whose  confidence  in  the  gospel  was 
perfect,  for  accomplisliiug  a  transformation  on  the 
former,  absolutely  no  confidence  in  the  same  gospel, 
to  produce  any  salutary  change  in  the  latter  ?  Or 
could  it  have  escaped  the  eagle  eye  of  those  patriots 
who  loved  almost  to  idolatry  their  country's  freedom, 
and  who  are  ever  so  ready  to  espy  the  dangers 
which  threaten  it,  that  to  let  loose  upon  the  com- 
munity, fi'om  the  very  hot-beds  of  moral  corruption, 
the  vitiated  beings  who  had  there  been  trained  to 
the  artful  coimnission  and  concealment  of  crime  in 
all  its  baleful  forms,  was  more  certain  to  shake  the 
pillai-s  of  the  temple  of  Liberty,  than  the  combined 
force  of  foreign  assault? 

To  whatever  cause  the  long-continued  and  giulty 
apathy  upon  this  subject  must  be  attributed,  it  is  a 
subject  of  just  and  universal  congratulation,  that  at 


104  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

last  it  has  been  broken.  Reform  of  prisons  and  of 
prison  discipline  has  of  late  advanced  rapidly  and 
regularl}'  by  the  instrumentality  of  the  American 
Prison  Discipline  Society,  and  their  judicious  and 
efficient  general  agent.  Their  first  efforts  have 
been  wisely  directed  to  the  sti'ucture  of  prisons ; 
and,  in  several  instances,  the  beneficial  results  of  this 
change  alone  have  been  strikingly  manifest.  It  gives 
to  each  convict  the  advantages  of  such  seclusion, 
dming  the  night  and  upon  the  Christian  Sabbath, 
OS  is  most  favorable  to  instruction  and  meditation. 
It  renders  him  also  accessible  to  the  efforts  of  Chris- 
tian kindness ;  and,  w^herever  this  reform  has  been 
introduced,  even  if  no  legislative  provision  has  been 
made  for  the  rehgious  instruction  of  prisoners,  the 
deficiency  has  been,  to  a  considerable  extent,  sup- 
plied by  the  casual  and  free-will  offerings  of  personal 
service,  which  those  in  immediate  proximity  to  such 
institutions  have  been  prompted  to  render.  Of  such 
labors,  humble  and  unpretending  as  is  their  charac- 
ter, it  would  be  difficult  to  speak  in  terms  of  ade- 
quate eulogy,  without  offenduig  the  single-hearted 
piety  of  their  mstrmnents. 

This  will  be  my  apology  for  the  veil  which  I 
must  throw  over  the  name  and  residence  of  the 
principal  actor  of  the  following  narrative.  A  Idnd 
Providence  threw  in  jny  way  the  scene  which  is 
here  described,  during  a  short  tour  through  some  of 
the  Northern  and  Eastern  States,  in  the  winter  of 
182—. 


THE    COXVICT'S    FRIEND.  105 

It  is  copied,  with  very  slight  alteration,  from  the 
leaves  of  my  journal.  The  closing  mcident  rests,  of 
course,  on  other  testimony. 

At  an  early  hour  on  Saturday  afternoon,  I  found 
myself  obliged,  by  the  ahuost  impracticable  badness 
of  the  roads,  to  give  over  the  idea  of  farther  progress 
in  my  journey,  and  seek  for  such  a  home  as  the 
weary  traveller  needs  upon  the  Christian  Sabbath. 
This  was  soon  aiTanged ;  and  an  opportunity  then 
offered  to  consider  tlie  best  method  of  improving 
the  few  hours  of  leisure  thus  casually  furnished. 
It  occm*red  to  me  that  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
resided  one  of  my  revered  father's  friends,  the 
early  recollection  of  whom  had  not  entirely  faded 
from  my  mind.     I  sought  and  found  him. 

The  same  chastened  smile,  which  in  childhood 
won  my  heart,  while  it  inspired  a  sacred  regard,  still 
animated  his  countenance  ;  and  most  cordial  was  the 
recognition  and  the  welcome  which  the  friend  of  the 
father  extended  to  the  son.  Mr.  Heniy,  by  which 
name  I  may  designate  the  worthy  man,  if  past  the 
meridian  of  Ufe,  had  lost  none  of  its  \agor ;  and  a 
circle  of  interesting  children,  now  risen  up  aroimd 
him,  almost  to  maturity,  gave  additional  chamis  to 
his  attractiveness.  He  had  some  years  before 
retired  from  professional  cares,  and,  by  strict 
economy,  secured  from  his  patiimony  not  only  a 
comfortable  subsistence  for  his  family,  but  also  that 
which  he  seemed  not  less  highly  to  prize, — the  means 
of  rendering  important  assistance  in  the  principal 


lOG  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

departments  of  Christian  entei*prise  and  effort. 
Having  given  himself  to  Christ,  he  practically  un- 
derstood the  obvious  deduction,  which  many,  alas ! 
seem  continually  to  forget,  that  he  was  not  his  own. 
His  time,  his  thoughts,  his  all,  were  most  cheerfully 
rendered  a  willing  thank-offering  to  the  Redeemer. 
In  his  company,  surrounded  by  those  who  had  im- 
bibed such  lessons  from  his  lips,  the  evening  glided 
rapidly  away.  On  parting,  for  the  night,  with  the 
man  whom  I  had  just  before  sought  as  my  father's 
friend,  but  who  had  secured,  in  a  few  hours,  the 
confidence  and  esteem  usually  felt  only  after 
protracted  intercourse,  it  gave  me  unfeigned  pleas- 
ure to  accept  his  invitation  to  spend  a  part  of  the 
approaching  Sabbath  with  him  in  visiting  the  neigh- 
boring prison.  An  early  hour  of  the  following 
morning  saw  us  on  the  way,  and,  long  before  the 
church-going  bell  smnmons  the  worshippers  to  the 
sanctuary,  we  were  approaching  the  gloomy,  grated, 
and  now  silent  walls,  where 

Sons  of  guilt,  who  sell  themselves  to  bondage, 
Endure  its  galling  chains. 

It  would  seem  as  though,  in  bitter  mockery  of 
its  destination,  the  surrounding  scenery  had  put 
on  unusual  charn.s.  An  extensive  sloping  la^vn 
stretches  far  in  front  and  to  the  left  of  the  prison, 
while,  on  the  right,  one  of  the  loveliest  rivers 
of  North  America,  in  every  thing  poetic  but  its 
name,  spreads  its  broad  surface.     The  ripple  of  its 


THE    CONVICT'S  FRIEND.  107 

slightest  waves,  breaking  upon  the  pebbles  of  the 
sliore,  would  fall  even  upon  the  ear  of  the  cell's 
sohtaiy  inmate.  In  what  melancholy  proximity  do 
nature's  beauties  and  our  own  moral  deformities 
tlius  present  themselves  !  and  how  painfully  over- 
whehniug  is  the  conviction  thus  produced  of  whai 
t^vLS  world  might  be,  were  it  not  for  sin ! 

Entering  the  massy  walls,  I  was  soon  convinced 
that  my  companion  was  a  frequent,  an  expected,  and 
a  most  welcome  visiter.  Bars  and  bolts  and  guards 
yielded  us  a  ready  ingress,  and  we  found  ourselves 
in  the  enclosure,  and  dkectly  before  the  cells,  where, 
sohtary,  but  easily  accessible,  nearly  two  hundred 
immortal  beings  were  now  held.  They  were  in- 
deed felons.  Many  of  them,  undoubtedly,  had  been 
hardened  by  a  long-contmued  course  of  evil.  But 
Jesus  came  to  seek  and  to  save  the  lost,  and  even 
these,  mipromismg  as  they  were,  still  were  "  pris- 
oners of  hope." 

"  Here,"  said  Mr.  Henrj'^,  "  let  us  separate.  In  this 
row  of  cells  you  will  find  some  of  the  most  interesting 
of  the  prisoners,  and  "^ome,  too,  on  whom  you  may 
think  the  labor  of  Christian  instruction  bestowed  in 
vain.  I  will  introduce  you  to  them,  and  then  repair 
to  another  section  of  the  buildmg."  When  left 
alone  ^vith  each  indvidual,  to  whom  I  successively 
addressed  myself,  my  earnest  effort  was  to  learn, 
from  his  own  lips,  the  views  ho  entertained  of  him- 
self, of  his  sins,  both  those  against  the  conununity, 
for  which  he  was  here  mcarcerated,  and  those  i  lore 


108  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

directly  or  solely  against  God.  Some,  with  much 
freedom  and  feeling,  presented  their  own  characters 
in  such  a  light  as  cai'ried  full  conviction  that  the  Holy 
Spirit  had  taught  them ;  and  here  I  learned,  what  I 
hatl  only  suspected  before,  that  the  friend  who 
accompanied  me  had,  for  several  months,  with 
persevering  faithfulness,  visited  these  outcasts ;  and 
God  had  manifestly  blessed  his  efforts,  and  those 
of  another  pious  individual,  in  turning  the  flinty 
hearts  of  some  of  them  to  flesh.  With  tears  of 
gi'atitude,  they  mentioned  his  name,  and  his  efforts 
for  their  benefit.  Each  had  some  independent 
testimony  of  his  kindness  (communication  with  each 
other  was  impossible  );  and  those  who  had  obviously 
profited  most  by  his  instructions,  evinced  the 
greatest  degree  of  attachment  and  regard  to  the 
instrument  of  their  illumination. 

It  was  indeed  as  he  had  apprized  me.  On  some, 
instruction  and  the  kindest  words  of  aflTectionate 
entreaty,  seemed  lost.  One  who  was,  in  every  sense, 
an  old  offender,  havhig  early  commenced  a  career 
of  wickedness,  and  now,  in  his  waning  years,  serv- 
ing out,  for  the  tlmxl  time,  the  period  which  the  law 
had  awarded  for  his  oflTence,  was,  more  than  any 
other  individual,  hardened,  impudent,  and  appa- 
rently reckless  of  his  danger.  With  every  tiling 
around  him  he  seemed  at  fault.  The  other  pris- 
oners professed  themselves  satisfied  with  their  fare 
and  the  paternal  character  and  deportment  of  those 
to  whom  the  law  had  committed  them.     He  raut- 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEND.  109 

tered  out  bis  complaints,  in  no  sparing  measure, 
against  all  with  whom  he  had  connexion.  Poor, 
miserable  old  man  !  with  almost  unparalleled  in- 
fatuation thus  seeking  to  fill  up  to  the  very  brim 
the  bitter  cup  of  retribution  which  so  soon  must 
be  forced  back  upon  him. 

Every  cell  was  furnished  witli  a  Bible  ;  and  tliose 
convicts  who  could  read,  and  who  were  willing  to 
accept  them,  were  supplied,  each  Sabbath,  with 
such  tracts  of  appropriate  character  as  they  pre- 
ferred. With  these,  or  w^th  the  Word  of  God..  I 
found  most  of  them  engaged  ;  and  to  these,  after 
such  instruction  and  counsel  as  I  could  give,  I  felt 
it  a  pleasure  and  rehef  again  to  commend  them, 
that  what  in  my  instructions  had  been  erroneous  or 
deficient,  might  there  be  corrected  and  supplied. 

But  the  results  of  the  mstruction  which  had  here 
been  conmiunicated  by  one  whom  I  had  now 
learned  to  regard  as  peculiarly  the  convict's  friend, 
had  excited  in  me  an  intense  desh'e  to  learn,  by 
personal  observation,  the  sacred  art  and  secret  of 
his  success.  Almost  by  stealth,  therefore,  I  followed 
liim  to  the  higher  range  of  cells,  where  he  was  now- 
plying  his  and  the  blaster's  suit,  "to  each  attentive, 
solitar}'  ear."  The  projections  between  the  cells 
entirely  shielded  me  from  observation  ;  and,  as  I 
followed  him  from  one  to  another,  so  as  distinctly 
to  hear  his  conversations  with  their  several  in- 
mates, a  happy  opportunity  was  furnished  me  to 
learn  his  usual  method  of  address.  It  was  uni- 
10 


110  THE    CIIIilSTIAN    OFFERING. 

fornily  characterized  l3y  great  solemnity,  earnestness 
and  affection.  He  approaclied  eacli  individual  with 
the  measured  severity  and  reserve  of  an  offended 
father.  His  very  manner  was  calculated,  and 
probably  intended,  to  rebuke  all  undue  famiUarity, 
wliicli,  if  allowed,  would,  in  his  frequent  intercourse, 
be  productive  of  the  most  disastrous  results.  At  the 
same  time,  there  was  an  entire  absence  of  haughti- 
ness in  his  bearing.  It  all  betokened  the  deep 
severity  of  conviction  that  one  great  errand  had 
brought  him  thither,  and  that  every  thing  foreign  to 
that  was  an  unwelcome  intruder.  It  may,  perhaps, 
be  doubted  whether  this  method  of  approach  would 
succeed  with  men  at  large  in  the  world,  having  am- 
ple opportunity  to  select  their  own  associates,  and 
tlieir  own  topics  of  conversation.  But  to  the  solitary 
convict,  any  voice,  and  almost  any  theme,  is  wel- 
come. His  first  inquiries  generally  led  direcdy  to 
the  great  and  essential  themes  of  God's  character, 
government,  law  and  grace.  He  would  pass  by 
the  evasions  and  subterfuges,  to  which  some  desired 
to  betake  themselves,  apparently  unnoticed  ;  yet  liis 
further  inquiries  would  sweep  all  those  refuges 
away,  and  urge  upon  the  conscience  and  the  heart 
such  considerations  as  were  best  adapted  to  their 
state. 

Some,  whom  he  addressed,  were  evidently  stran- 
gers ;  and  I  witnessed,  probably,  the  first  interview. 
Others,  it  was  obvious,  had  been,  as  to  their  spirit- 
ual state,  closely  scanned  by   him  before;  and  he 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEND.  HI 

readily  availed  liiinself  of  past  concessions,  and  drew 
their  attention  to  some  unanswered  inten*ogatory,  on 
which  he  had  solicited  their  careful  reflection,  that 
they  might  he  better  prepared  to  communicate  their 
matured  convictions.  His  retention  and  ready 
application  of  all  these,  considering  how  many 
were  his  conversations,  each  Sabbath,  were  indeed 
sm-prising,  but  clearly  e\-inced  what  the  concentrated 
energy  of  the  mmd  can  accomplish  when  remed  up 
by  the  high  requirements  of  duty,  and  sustained 
by  the  Spirit  of  God.  His  most  earnest  and  pro- 
tracted inteniews  were  \vith  those  who  most 
needed,  and  most  cordially  welcomed,  insti-uction. 
To  these,  especially  near  the  close  of  each  intendew, 
there  was  a  manifestation  of  such  affectionate 
sohcitude,  as  ob\-iously  seemed  to  say,  that  he  was 
ready  to  impart  to  them  not  the  gospel  only,  but 
also  his  own  soul.  He  uniformly  took  their  hand, 
if  offered  through  the  nan'ow  aperture ;  and,  while 
pressing  it  m  his  oavti,  his  whole  countenance 
carrj^ing  conviction  of  the  estimate  he  placed  upon 
their  reception  of  his  counsels,  he  would,  in  the 
most  solemn  and  impressive  language,  cany  home 
his  closmg  appeal,  and  briefly  commend  them  to 
God.  To  some  of  them  it  seemed  not  ua  vam  ;  for, 
long  after  he  left  them,  in  noiselessly  passing  their 
cells,  I  noticed  that  the  sighs  and  prayers  of  con- 
trition were    yet  audibly  continued. 

How  many,  who,  at  one  time,  gave  promise  of 
amendment,  afterwards  relapsed;   and  how  many 


112  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

who  persevered  in  hopeful  reform  till  sent  forth 
again  to  an  ensnaring  world,  then  to  fall  more  hope- 
lessly into  sin  and  crime,  the  records  of  time  or  the 
final  judgment  can  only  show.  It  encourages  to 
perseverance,  however,  that,  of  the  number  reform- 
ed, few  have  actually  been  known  to  forsake  the 
paths  of  peace;  while  some,  undoubtedly,  as  the 
sequel  will  shoAV,  have  been  restrained  from  the 
practice  of  much  evil  by  the  moral  and  rehgious 
instruction  which  has  been  furnished  them. 

The  morning's  mtercourse  with  the  convicts  in- 
dividually prepared  Mr.  Henry  for  the  discharge  of 
a  more  public  duty,  which,  immediately  after  a 
frugal  dinner  in  the  apartment  of  the  warden,  we 
repaired  to  that  part  of  the  building  used  as  a  chapel 
to  perform.  Here  all  the  prisoners  vrere  closely 
seated,  waiting  for  our  arrival.  We  entered ;  and, 
for  a  few  moments,  the  survey  of  this  group  of 
guilt  and  wretchedness,  as  it  was  presented  in  one 
view  before  us,  almost  overcame  me.  There  v/as, 
too,  something  impressive,  if  not  morally  subhme, 
in  the  discipline  here  evinced.  With  only  two  of 
the  guard  and  the  warden,  entu-ely  unarmed,  we 
were  in  the  presence  of  neai-ly  two  hundred  athletic 
and  recently  hardened  and  lawless  men,  each  as 
free  as  ourselves,  and  into  whose  power,  apparent- 
ly^— aiid  I  see  not  but  really, — we  threw  ourselves 
without  any  reserve.  But  there  is  moral  influence 
in  the  gosj^el  more  potent  than  fetters  or  dun- 
geons. 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEND.  113 

Before  this  group,  upon  the  bare  pavement  on 
which  their  seats  were  arranged,  Mr.  Henry  knelt, 
and  offered  a  fervent  prayer.  He  seemed  to  bear  to 
the  mercy-seat  the  case  of  each  class  of  mdividuals 
witli  w^hom  he  had  lately  mmgled,  and,  with  the 
humble  earnestness  of  one  whose  exigency,  like  that 
of  the  wi-estling  patriarch,  impelled  hmi  to  say, "  I  will 
not  let  thee  go  without  the  blessing,"  he  pressed  his 
suit,  and  plead  for  those  before  him.  In  the  worthy 
name  of  Jesus,  and  through  liis  merits  alone,  were 
all  the  intel-cessions  offered.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
most  affecting  consideration,  that  the  community 
had  shut  out  these  men  from  their  regards }  their 
friends  had  abandoned,  and  many,  undoubtedly, 
wished  to  forget  them ;  and  yet  the  holy  man  could 
plead  for  them  with  full  assurance  that  the  exalted 
Redeemer  still  deemed  them  not  unworthy  his 
regard,  and,  therefore,  they  were  prisoners  of  hope. 
Many  of  their  rough  features  were  melted  by  that 
prayer,  and  tears  flowed  freely  from  the  eyes  of 
those  long  unused  to  weep. 

The  Sacred  Scriptures  were  then  read,  and  from 
an  appropriate  portion  they  were  addressed.  The 
object  of  the  discourse  seemed  to  be,  to  show  them 
what  must  be  their  character  in  order  to  enjoy 
the  divine  favor,  and  to  press  upon  them,  by  the 
most  ob-vdous  motives,  the  attainment  of  that 
character.  Some  of  these  motives  referred  par- 
ticularly, though  with  sufficient  dehcacy,  to  their 
unhappy  condition.  When  allusion  was  made  to 
10^ 


114  THE    CIimSTIAN    OFFERING. 

the  situation  of  those  who,  once  in  the  bosom  of 
friends,  and  participating  the  privileges  of  the  chil- 
dren of  God",  had  now  jjlunged  themselves  deep 
in  infamy  and  misery,  I  noticed  some  who  hid  their 
faces  with  overwhehning  confusion  and  remorse, 
nor  raised  their  eyes  again  till  the  services  were 
closed,  and  the  signal  of  the  warden  bade  them 
silently  retire.  One  of  this  description,  whose  tall 
stature  and  haggard  features  rendered  him  conspicu- 
ous, in  passing  the  place  where  we  stood,  raised  his 
eyes,  and,  fixing  them  for  a  moment  on  us,  beckoned 
us  to  follow  him  to  his  cell.  Judge  of  my  feehngs 
on  recognising,  in  the  altered  form  and  miserable 
aspect  of  this  man,  the  wi*eck  of  a  former  neighbor 
and  acquaintance.  His  melancholy  story  may  be 
briefly  told.  He  was  the  son  of  pious  parents.  His 
now  aged  father  for  many  years  held  the  office  of 

deacon  in  the    church   at .     Though   amiable 

and  correct  in  his  own  deportment,  as  a  Christian 
and  a  father,  his  sin  was  that  of  Eli.  For  the  evil 
of  his  sons  he  mourned,  and  even  expostulated  with 
them  ;  but  he  restrained  them  not.  Moral  principle 
was  never  earnestly  inculcated;  the  restramts  of 
religion  were,  of  course,  unwelcome,  and  were  never 
enforced  upon  them  with  becoming  energy.  The 
retched  being  now  before  us  was  one  of  the  eldest 
>sons.  He  married  early  in  life,  and  settled  in  the 
paternal  neighborhood.  An  extensive  revival  of 
religion  saw  him  and  his  companion  numbered 
among  its  hopeful  subjects ;  and  at  the  same  table 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEND.  115 

from  wliich  I  first  received  the  memorials  of  a 
Saviour's  sufferings  aud  love,  he  w^as  also  seated. 
It  was  soon,  however,  apparent,  that,  in  him,  as  on 
ihe  stony  gi'ound,  the  seed  had  immediately  sprung 
up  where  "there  was  no  deepness  of  earth,  and, 
because  it  had  no  root,  it  ■withered  away."  Along 
witli  painfully  apparent  coldness  of  affection,  and 
neglect  of  reUgious  duty,  came,  for  a  season,  the 
engrossing  cares  and  distractions  of  consummate 
worldly-muidedness.  He  had  now  abandoned  God, 
and,  at  a  tune  when  least  prepared  for  it,  the  smiles 
of  a  hitherto  favoring  Providence  abandoned 
him. 

The  speculations  which  he  had  pushed  too  eager- 
ly, now  involved  liim  in  pecuniary  embarrassment. 
To  all  the  rest  was  joined — whether  as  cause 
or  effect,  it  would  not,  perhaps,  be  easy  to  deter- 
mine— a  decided  disposition  for  inebriety.  He  was 
not,  indeed,  in  the  common  estimation,  a  drunkard ; 
but  the  constant  and  now  free  use  of  intoxicating 
liquors,  was  making  daily  and  dreadful  inroads  upon 
whatever  of  peace  and  enjoyment  still  remained. 
When  at  home,  he  was  sullen  and  morose ;  when 
abroad,  in  affecting  to  be  cheerful,  he  was  strangely 
foohsh  and  indiscreet.  At  the  late  hour  of  night, 
those  who  kept  their  faithful  vigil  in  anxious  expec- 
tation of  his  return,  often  received  him  "  as  ho 
should  not  be,"  yet  kindly  strove  to  hide  it  v/ith 
themselves.  But  this  progress  from  bad  to  worse 
cannot,  by  such  means,  be  retarded  ;  and  here  it  was 


116  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING 

accelerated  with  awful  rapidity.  His  appearance 
gave  additional  dissatisfaction  and  alarm  to  creditors, 
whose  claims  were  often  more  earnestly  pressed,  on 
account  of  the  singularly  inappropriate  manner  of 
his  refusals  and  evasions.  A  crisis  was  evidently  ap- 
proaching ;  nor  could  its  amval  be  any  longer  either 
delayed  or  forgotten.  It  can  excite  little  wonder, 
that,  under  such  circumstances,  destitute  of  early 
and  deep-rooted  moral  principle,  and  having  now 
cast  away  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  he  accepted  tlie 
proffer  of  aid  from  a  gang  of  counterfeiters,  into 
whose  snares  one  of  his  younger  brotliers  had  before 
fallen.  He  yielded  himself  up  to  the  delusive  hope 
which  those  lawless  men  desired  hhn  to  cherish, 
and  made  liimself  and  another  the  dupes  of  their 
artifice.  His  attempts  were  bold,  but  unsuccessful, 
and,  abandoned  by  tliose  who  had  thrust  him  be- 
tween themselves  and  punisliment,  he  now  found 
himself  a  guilty,  self-condemned,  and  almost  unpitied 
convict.  In  the  prison,  his  whole  nature  seemed 
"changed,  but  not  improved."  On  the  contrary, 
the  deep  moitification  of  spirit,  which  the  fall  from 
such  an  elevation  had  produced,  with  the  total 
ungodhness  to  which  he  now  abandoned  himself, 
seemed  to  have  wrought  a  hard,  stubborn,  and  even 
revengeful  temper,  which  made  him  most  odious 
and  repulsive.  Up  to  that  veiy  hour,  when  we  stood 
before  him,  no  word  or  look  of  contrition  had  escaped 
him  ;  and  whether  the  apparent  tenderness  he  now 
manifested  in  oin-  recognition  and  brief  interview 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEND;  117 

was  any  tiling  more  than  natural  sensibility  which 
my  sympathy  for  his  changed  state  and  aspect  called 
forth,  must  be  determined  by  the  great  Searcher  of 
hearts.  An  outcast  from  the  church  and  from  the 
world,  to  the  mercy  of  God  we  commended  liim, 
and  were  constrained,  by  previous  aiTangements,  to 
hasten  from  the  scene. 

The  sanctuaiy  that  evening  was  filled  with  pro- 
fessed w^orshippers,  most  unlike,  in  all  respects,  to 
those  we  had  just  visited.  But  yet,  the  deep  organ's 
notes,  the  harmony  of  a  full-voiced  choir,  and  the 
reverent  attitude  of  the  suppliant  multitude,  seemed 
less  impressive  than  the  prayer  which  had  been 
that  moiTiing  offered  for  those  so  long  and  so  fatally 
prayerless.  Even  the  ministrations  of  that  gospel, 
which  must  be  always  welcome  to  the  renewed, 
seemed  to  possess  a  sweeter  relish  and  more  heav- 
enly attractions,  when  it  fell  upon  the  ears  of  those 
grievously  wounded  by  sin,  and  even  now  ready  to 
perish.  Who  would  not  unite  in  the  prayer  of 
Asaph,  "Let  the  sighing  of  the  prisoner  come  before 
thee ;  according  to  the  greatness  of  thy  pow^r, 
preserve  thou  the  sons  of  death"  ? 

Some  years  had  passed  away,  and  the  scene 
of  my  narrative  is  changed  to  one  of  the  principal 
commercial  cities  of  our  country.  The  close  of  the 
Sabbath  evening  found  3Ir.  Henry  wandering  forth, 
in  lonely  musing,  toward  the  principal  wharfs,  now 
deserted  and  sohtary.  There  was  an  air  of  uncom- 
mon sadness  indicated  in  his  movements,  and  occa- 


118  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

sionally,  as  he  raised  his  eyes,  apparently  to  descry 
some  object  in  the  harbor,  they  seemed  filled  with 
teal's  which  he  strove  in  vain  to  suppress.  In 
changing  his  position  for  another  pier,  which 
stretched  farther  into  the  bay,  and  wliich  prom- 
ised to  present  a  fairer  view  of  the  object  he 
was  endeavoring  to  descry,  he  passed  through  a 
dark  and  narrow  alley,  and,  turnmg  its  corner, 
met  two  men,  wlio  crossed  his  way,  and  passed  by 
him  so  closely  that  one  of  them  jostled  his  steps. 
Absorbed  as  he  now  was  with  other  thoughts, 
the  incident  would  not  have  been  noticed,  had 
not  the  other,  and  taller  of  the  two,  fixed  on  him 
an  earnest  and  inquiring  gaze,  which  seemed  to 
ask,  Have  we  not  met  before  ?  For  a  moment 
only  did  the  thought  occupy  his  mind,  and  he  hur- 
ried on,  to  gain  sight,  from  the  extreme  point  of  the 
projecting  quay,  of  the  object  of  his  solicitude. 

It  was  now  near  ten  o'clock,  and  the  waning 
moon  just  began  to  shed  her  hght  from  the  eastern 
horizon.  A  gallant  ship  was  riding  at  anchor, 
distant,  perhaps,  a  furlong  from  the  position  he  had 
now  gained.  His  gaze  was  riveted,  and,  with 
agitating  emotion,  he  seemed  to  scan  her  noble  form 
and  tall  masts,  which  cast  their  shadows  ahnost  to 
his  feet.  Scarcely  a  breath  of  air  ruffled  the  surface 
of  the  broad  bay,  and  the  gurgling  sound  of  the 
swelling  tide,  as  it  rushed  past  the  artificial  projec- 
tion on  which  he  stood,  was  the  only  interruption  of 
the  lonely  silence. 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEND.  119 

A  father,  but  not  every  father,  may  judge  what 
were  then  his  feehugs.  For  that  barque,  wliich 
now  rested  so  quietly,  was  the  next  morning  to 
spread  her  sails  to  the  coming  breeze,  and  bear 
away  from  him,  far  and  forever,  his  motherless 
first-born.  Slie  who  had  been  his  solace  and  his 
joy,  around  whom  the  doting  affections  of  paternal 
tenderness  had  been  allowed  to  gather  and  entwine, 
when  soiTOW  for  the  loss  of  the  companion  of  his 
youth  had  melted  down  his  soul, — she  who  was 
the  hvmg  image  of  her  whom  he  mourned,  and 
who  was  now  more  sacredly  endeared  to  him  than 
ever,  since  her  heart,  renovated  by  divine  grace,  and 
controlled  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  seemed  cemented  to 
his  own  by  the  blood  of  atonement, — even  she  was 
to  be  gazed  upon  by  him,  on  the  coming  morning, 
and  probably  on  that  veiy  spot,  for  the  last  time. 
After  her  conversion,  she  had  asked,  as  did  Paul,  and 
Harriet  Newell,  and  ]Mrs.  Judson,  "  Lord,  what  wilt 
thou  have  me  to  dor"  and  to  her,  as  to  them,  the 
response  had  been  given,  "  Thou  art  a  chosen  vessel 
unto  me,  to  bear  my  name  far  hence  unto  the 
heathen,  and  I  will  show  thee  how  great  things 
tliou  must  suffer  for  my  name's  sake."  She  dared 
not  be  disobedient  to  the  heavenly  mandate,  and, 
fully  gathering  that  the  Lord  required  the  sacrifice 
at  her  hand,  slie  had  parted  with  the  endearments 
of  home  and  kmdred,  and  was  now  setting  forth 
toward  the  destmed  field  of  her  future  toils,  for  the 


120  THE    CIIllISTIAN    OFFERING. 

especial  benefit  of  the  degraded  and  sinful  of  her 
own  sex  in  the  Farther  India. 

Her  feelings  and  convictions  on  this  interesting 
subject  she  had  dutifully  communicated  to  her  father, 
ffom  their  first  existence  to  their  consummation.  The 
lesson  of  self-denial,  on  which  she  was  now  prao- 
tising,  was  one  which  liis  hps  and  life  had  taught  her. 
She  could  not  therefore  anticipate,  nor  did  she  expe- 
rience, either  opposition  or  reluctance,  on  his  part, 
to  the  measure.  "  Freely,"  said  he,  "  have  I  received, 
and  shall  I  not  freely  give  ?"  But,  cheerfully  as  he 
had  resolved,  and  steadfastly  as  he  persevered  in 
making  this  greatest  personal  sacrifice,  it  was  not  for 
a  frail  nature,  sanctified  in  part,  to  carry  the  resolu- 
tion into  full  effect,  and  sever  ties  so  strong  and 
tender,  without  a  struggle,  which  he  had  indeed 
anticipated,  but  which,  as  the  moment  of  separation 
approached,  he  now  began  to  fear  would  quite  im- 
man  him.  It  was  to  prepare,  in  some  degree,  for 
tlie  trying  hour,  that  he  had  now  sought  this  soli- 
tude ;  that,  upon  the  very  spot  where  the  conflict 
would  soon  take  place,  he  might  thus  seek  and  ob- 
tain grace  to  conquer.  The  place  and  the  hour  were 
adapted  to  his  purpose,  and,  after  viewing,  for  a  few 
moments,  the  now  silent  vessel,  which  for  months 
would  be  the  home  of  one  so  dear  to  him,  he  knelt 
in  prayer  to  ask,  both  for  parent  and  child,  the 
aid  which  each  now  required.  It  was  a  spectacle 
such  as  moonbeams  rarely  witness ;  and  on  it  angels 
might  look  down  with  interest. 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEND.  121 

It  was  the  felicity  of  Mr.  Henry,  that  he  never 
came  before  God  in  prayer  without  such  adoring  con- 
ceptions of  the  divine  character  and  glory,  as  were 
happily  adapted  to  tranquillize  and  elevate  his  mind. 
Even  on  this  occasion,  the  radiance  of  that  Divine 
Being  whom  he  approached  seemed  to  shed  im  wont- 
ed lustre  upon  his  countenance,  and  cahnness  into  his 
soul.  He  had  come  to  pour  out  his  spirit  m  agony 
before  God's  tin-one  ;  but  in  his  approach,  ere  he  was 
aware,  entire  composure  and  gi'ateful  and  cheerful 
resignation  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  had  been  restored 
to  him.  So  clearly  did  the  divine  glory  and  the 
salvation  of  perishing  heathen  seem  identified  w^ith 
the  offering  he  was  about  to  make,  that  his  own 
sacrifice  of  earthly  enjoyment  seemed  altogether 
unworthy  to  be  regarded  in  comparison.  That 
Spu'it,  which,  all  along  the  way,  he  had  invoked, 
rendered  such  gracious  and  effectual  aid  in  liis 
supphcation,  that,  when  he  expected  to  mourn,  and 
wrestle,  and  almost  complain,  he  was  enabled  to 
rejoice  and  triumph.  Tears  did  indeed  bedew  his 
cheek,  but  they  were  not  those  of  bitter  and  repining 
grief — rather  of  holy  joy  ;  and  as  he  was  rendering 
thanks  for  this  surprising  deliverance  (how  gi'eat, 
even  at  that  moment,  he  did  not  reahze),  the  sound 
of  footsteps  near  him  interrupted  his  devotions.  He 
rose  from  his  knees,  and,  looking  round,  saw  two 
men  rapidly  receding  from  the  place  where  he 
stood.  The  one  most  clearly  seen  seemed  hurried 
11 


122  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

awa)'',  almost  against  liis  will,  by  the  more  powerful 
grasp  of  the  other ;  and,  when  removed  to  a  little 
distance,  thej^  appeared  in  earnest  and  almost  pas- 
sionate conversation  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
suddenly  left  the  wharf. 

His  sanctuary  had  evidently  been  invaded ,  and 
the  thought  crossed  his  mind,  that  perhaps  he  had 
unnecessarily  exposed  himself  to  observation  in  those 
duties  which  were  intended  only  for  the  notice  of 
Him  who  seeth  in  secret.  He  recollected,  too,  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  and  hastened  to  the  friends  who 
had  already  become  sohcitous  for  his  return. 

The  next  morning's  sun  had  but  just  commenced 
his  circuit  of  the  heavens,  when  a  multitude  were 
seen  standhig  on  that  same  wharf;  the  parting  hymn 
was  sung;  the  fervent  prayer  was  offered;  fathei 
and  daughter  had  separated  from  an  embrace  of 
mutual  and  almost  overpowering  tenderness.  His 
eye  still  followed  the  boat  which  was  conveying  her 
to  the  ship,  when,  pressing  through  the  crowd,  a  tall 
and  athletic  form  laid  his  hand  almost  rudely  upon 
that  father.  Turning  for  h  moment,  he  was  present- 
ed with  a  sealed  envelope,  while,  witli  averted  face, 
the  man  who  offered  it  hastily  departed.  The  eyes 
and  the  heart  of  Mr.  Henry  were  then,  and  for  some 
subsequent  hours,  too  full  to  allow  him  to  examine  it. 
When  afterwards  he  broke  the  seal,  he  read  with 
surprise  and  gratitude  the  following  letter,  hastily 
and  almost  illegibly  written  : — 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEND.  123 

«  Dbab   Sir, 

"  The  hand  which  traces  these  hues  has 
often  been  extended   thi'ough  the   gratuigs   of  the 

prison  in to  meet  your  own.     Never  shall  I 

forget  the  counsels  and  prayers  I  have  there  heard 
from  your  lips.  For  months  after  my  discharge,  I 
studiously  followed  your  advice,  and  began  to  feel 
that  the  dangers  against  which  you  so  faithfully 
warned  me,  were  all  passed  away.  My  friends  began 
to  inquire,  with  renewed  interest,  after  my  welfare, 
and  at  length  invited  my  return  to  them.  To  make 
arrangements  for  that  return,  I  left  my  employment 
in  the  countiy,  and,  tlu-ee  days  smce,  arrived  in  this 
city.  By  accident,  I  met  with  one  of  the  com- 
panions of  my  former  career  of  wickedness. 
Though  younger  than  myself,  he  had  always 
possessed  an  mfluence  over  me  far  greater  than  any 
other  of  my  associates.  All  my  former  regard  now 
impelled  me  to  endeavor  to  accomphsh  his  refor- 
mation. He  appeared  to  hsten  to  me  with  deference, 
and  I  felt  pride  in  thought  of  the  change  which  I 
expected  soon  to  produce  in  his  course.  The  Sab- 
bath came,  and  I  proposed  his  attendance  with  me 
on  public  worship.  To  this  he  consented  in  the 
morning,  on  condition  that  I  Avould  ride  with  him  a 
short  distance  aftei-ward,  to  visit,  as  he  said,  a 
particular  friend.  I  felt,  indeed,  some  compimctions 
of  conscience  m  thus  profanmg  the  Sabbath,  and 
more  especially  when  I  found  the  friend  he 
sought  was  one  of  liis  own  character.     They  were 


124  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

soon  joined  by  others  of  kindred  spirit,  and,  not  wish- 
ing, in  their  presence,  to  di'aw  upon  my  companion 
any  suspicions  that  would  excite  their  ridicule, 
and  perhaps  their  hatred,  and  thus  endanger  my 
plans  for  liis  future  amendment,  I  strove  to  appear 
as  cheerful  and  as  familiar  as  possible.  The  social 
glass  went  round,  and  once  and  again,  to  banish 
their  suspicions,  I  partook.  We  returned  to  the 
city  too  late  for  evening  service ;  in  fact,  unfitted 
for  it.  In  company  with  him  whom  I  had  purposed 
to  lead,  but  whom  I  now  rather  followed,  we  strolled 
from  street  to  street,  and  from  alley  to  alley,  till, 
near  the  principal  dock,  we  passed  so  near  a 
Bohtary  gentleman,  that  the  master  sphit  who  now 
controlled  me,  contrived,  with  his  usual  dexterity,  to 
secure  liis  purse.  I  did  not  at  the  moment  perceive 
what  he  had  done,  perhaps  on  account  of  a  shght 
conviction,  which  his  appearance  m  the  partial 
darkness  gave,  that  the  man  we  met  was  not  a 
stranger  to  me.  Turning  a  corner,  however,  brought 
us  near  a  lamp,  and  the  ill-gotten  treasure  was  im- 
mediately scanned  with  eager  haste,  and  the  manner 
of  its  attainment  admitted,  wdth  a  kind  of  appeal 
which  seemed  to  demand  my  concurrence.  Almost 
stupified  with  amazement,  I  had  not  time  or  decision 
to  reply,  before  he  communicated  his  further  pur- 
pose. '  The  contents  of  this  purse  give  promise  of 
richer  spoils.  Take  this  m  your  keeping,  and  I  wdll 
follow  this  midnight  lounger,  and  soon  meet  you 
here.'  Horror-struck,  I  stood  gazing  after  him.    The 


THE    CONVICT'S    FRIEND.  125 

purse  lay  open  in  my  hand.  I  cast  my  eye  over  it, 
and  your  initials,  plainly  engraved  on  its  clasp,  and 
some  undefined  shadows  of  recollection,  seemed  to 
awaken  me  from  the  dream.  Without  any  other 
pui-pose  than  to  overtake  and  dissuade  the  lawless 
man  from  his  nefarious  pui^pose,  I  hastily  followed 
him.  The  moon  was  now  risen,  and  T  soon  caught 
sight  of  him,  as  he  was  gaining  the  covert  of  a  pro- 
jection just  beyond  which  the  stranger,  m  an  attitude 
of  suppUcation,  perfectly  unconscious  of  his  approach, 
was  now  absorbed  in  secret  communion  with  God. 
The  moon  shone  full  upon  the  features.  In  breath- 
less silence  I  approached.  Gracious  Pro\ddence! 
could  it  be  ?  yes,  it  must  be  he.  The  same  form,  in 
the  same  attitude,  had  often  riveted  my  eyes  and  my 
heart  when  he  interceded  for  us  in  the  prison. 
All  his  mstructions,  which  I  had  that  veiy  day  begun 
to  disregard,  rushed  upon  my  recollection,  and  I 
could  scarce  restrain  the  impulse  wliich  I  felt  imme- 
diately to  throw  myself  at  his  feet.  As  yet  my  late 
comrade  had  not  perceived  my  approach.  Prepared 
for  his  diabolical  pui-pose,  he  now  crept  from  his 
concealment ;  he  approached  the  kneeling  suppliant ; 
his  hand  was  just  raising  a  stone,  the  fall  of  which 
must  have  been  fatal,  when,  with  a  giant's  strength, 
I  seized  and  bore  him  away.  His  indignation,  at 
first,  was  m  proportion  to  his  disappointment.  He 
affected  to  be  incredulous  that  I  could  recognise 
you  under  such  circumstances ;  but  a  slight  ex- 
amination of  the  purse  now  in  my  possession  showed 
11* 


126  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

the  certainty  of  my  convictions.  Even  he  confessed 
to  me,  that  he  would  more  readily  have  assaulted  a 
man  aimed,  and  m  the  attitude  of  defiance,  than  one 
who  was  addressing  God  in  prayer.  '  Twice,'  said 
he,  'my  courage  failed  me,  and  I  determined  to 
retire  ;  but  the  demon  of  avarice  hardened  my 
heart,  and  in  another  moment  his  rescue  would 
have  been  unpossible.' 

"  The  events  of  the  last  evening  now  seem  to  me 
as  a  dream.  Your  purse  hes  before  me.  It  is  the 
same  from  whicli  you  generously  furnished  me,  for 
a  few  days,  on  the  morning  when  I  was  discharged 
from  the  prison.  Its  contents  I  return;  but  the 
ti-ifling  memorial  itself  I  must  preserve,  to  remind 
me  continually  of  those  lessons  w^hich  you  have  im- 
parted, and  wliich,  now  more  deeply  than  ever,  I 
desire  to  have  engraven  on  my  heart.  I  now"  feel 
that  you  much  better  understood  than  I  the  dangers 
to  which  my  path  is  exposed.  Yesterday  has  given 
me  another  warning, — to  shun  the  company  of  evil 
men,  rather  than  boast  of  my  power  to  reform  them ; 
to  guard  agamst  violations  of  the  Sabbath,  and 
against  the  intoxicating  cup.  May  that  impressive 
attitude  of  the  convict's  friend  be  ever  present  to  my 
mind,  and  often  win  me  to  a  throne  of  grace  to 
which  I  know  you  will  bear  the  case  of  the  now 
humbled  and  self-distrustful 

George." 


THE  BAPTISM. 


BY   MRS.    SIGOURNET. 


'TwAS  near  the  close  of  that  blest  day,  when,  with 

melodious  swell, 
To  crowded  mart  and  lonely  shade  had  spoke  the 

Sabbath-bell, 
And  on  a  broad,  unruffled  stream,  with  bordering 

verdure  bright. 
The   westering   sunbeam    richly  shed   a   tinge   of 

crimson  light, — 


When,  lo !  a  solemn  train  appeared,  by  their  loved 

pastor  led. 
And   sweetly   rose  the    holy  hymn  as  toward  that 

stream  they  sped ; 
And  he  its  cleavmg,  crystal  breast,  with   graceful 

movement,  trod. 
His  steadfast  eye  upraised,  to  seek  communion  with 

his  God. 


128  THE   CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Then,  bending  o'er  his  staff,  approached  the  willow- 
fringed  shore, 

A  man  of  many  weaiy  years,  with  fun*owed  temples 
hoar ; 

And  faintly  breathed  his  trembling  lip,  "  Behold !  I 
fain  would  be 

Buried  in  baptism  with  my  Lord,  ere  death  shall 
summon  me." 


With    brow    benign,    like    Him    whose    hand  did 

wavering  Peter  guide, 
The   pastor  bore  his  tottering  frame  through  that 

translucent  tide. 
And  plunged  him  'neath  the  shrouding  wave,  and 

spake  the  triune  name. 
And   joy  upon  that  withered    face    in   wondering 

radiance  came. 


And  then  advanced  a   lordly  fonn   in    manhood's 

towering  pride. 
Who  from  the  gilded  snares  of  earth  had   wisely 

turned  aside, 
And,  following  in  His  steps  who  bowed  to  Jordan's 

startled  wave, 
In    deep    humility    of  soul,  this    faithful    witness 

gave 


THE    BAPTISM.  129 

Who  next  ?    A  fair  and  fragile  form  in  snowy  robe 

doth  move, 
That  tender  beauty  in  her  eye  that  wakes  the  vow 

of  love. 
Yea,  come,  thou  gentle  one,  and  clothe  thyself  with 

strength  divine : 
This  stem  world  hath  a  thousand  darts  to  vex  a 

breast  like  thme. 


Beneath  its  smile  a  traitor's  kiss  is  oft  in  darkness 

bound : 
Cling  to  that  Comforter  who  holds  a  balm  for  every 

wound ; 
Propitiate   that   Protector's    care    who    never    will 

forsake. 
And  thou  shalt  strike  the  harp  of  praise  even  when 

thy  heartstrings  break. 


Then,  with  a    firm,  unshrinking   step,  the  watery 

path  she  trod, 
And  gave,  with  woman's  deathless  trust,  her  being 

to  her  God ; 
And  when,   all  drooping  from   the  flood,  she  rose 

like  hly's  stem, 
Methought  that  spotless  brow  might  wear  an  angel's 

diadem. 


130  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Yet  more!    Yet  more!     How  meek  they  bow  to 

thcii'  Redeemer's  rite, 
Then  pass  with  music  on  their  way,  hke  joyous  sons 

of  hght ! 
But,  hngering  on  those  shores,   I    staid   till   eveiy 

sound  was  hushed  ; 
For  hallowed    musings  o'er  my  soul  like   spring- 

swoln  rivers  rushed. 


"'Tis    better,"   said    the   voice  within,  "to  bear  a 

Christian's  cross,. 
Than  sell  this   fleeting  life  for  gold,  which  Death 

shall  prove  but  di'oss ; 
Far    better,  when    yon  shrivelled  skies   are  like  a 

bamier  furled. 
To  share  in  Christ's  reproach  than  gain  the  glory  of 

the  world." 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF   JESUS. 


•■'  For  the  battle  is  the  Lord's." 1  Sam.  xvii.  47. 


BY   THE   REV.   J.   LAW  SOW, 


HISSIOKART,  CALCUTTA. 


Hark  !  'tis  the  warlike  clarion : 

"  On  to  the  battle,  heroes,  on ! 

To  arms !  to  arms !"  resounds  on  high 

The  voice  of  w^ar  and  victory 

Haste  to  the  battle ;  see,  the  Lord 
Waves  to  the  clouds  his  conquering  sword ! 
"  To  arms !  to  arms !"  I  hear  the  cry, 
"  On,  on  to  death  or  victory." 

High  in  the  winds,  the  flag,  unfurled, 
Reveals  the  red  cross  to  the  world  ; 
To  arms !  to  arms !  I  haste,  I  fly. 
To  war  and  bloodless  victory. 


132  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

The  fierce,  embattled  hosts  of  hell 
Before  the  dreadful  onset  fell ; 
"  To  arms !  to  arms !"  was  once  the  cry ; 
But  now  tlie  trump  sounds,  "  Victory  !" 

Lo !  the  white  war-horse  treads  them  down ; 
I  know  the  Rider  by  his  crown : 
"  All  hail !  All  hail !"  his  legions  cry, — 
"  Jesus,  be  thine  the  victory !" 


PAGODA  AT  RANGOON. 


BT  REV.  JAMES  D.  K>0TVLE3. 


The  annexed  plate  is  a  reduced  copy  of  a  beauti- 
fully colored  engraving,  executed  in  England  from  a 
di-awing  made  at  Rangoon,  while  the  British  troops 
were  in  possession  of  that  city,  in  1824.  It  presents 
one  view  of  the  great  pagoda  near  Rangoon,  a  temple 
of  Gaudama,  which  is  said  to  enjoy  more  celebrity, 
and  to  receive  more  numerous  visits  and  more  ex- 
pensive offerings,  than  any  other  pagoda  in  Burmah, 
on  account,  partly,  of  its  extent  and  splendor,  but 
principally  because  it  is  supposed  to  contain  a  relic 
(a  small  lock  of  hair,  we  beheve)  of  Gaudama  liim- 
self.  The  principal  pile,  of  wliich  a  partial  view  is 
given  on  the  left,  is  a  huge  pyi'amid  of  brick.  In 
tlie  foregi'ound  of  the  plate  are  nmnerous  small  ^ 
pagodas,  ^vith  their  spires,  and  structures  of 
various  shapes,  interspersed  "vvith  figures  of  imag- 
inary beings.  The  pagoda  itself,  and  all  its 
sun'oundmg  buildings  and  images,  being  profusely 
decorated  with  gold  leaf,  present  to  the  eye  a  splendid 
scene.  The  plate  is  interesting  as  a  specimen  of 
12 


134  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Burman  arcliitecture,  which  displays  considerable 
skill,  mingled  with  a  seini-barbarous  taste  for  glitter 
and  for  incongruous  decorations.  But  the  Christian 
\^^ll  gaze  on  this  plate  with  feeUngs  of  commiser- 
ation for  the  deluded  worshippers  of  Gaudama, 
and  with  sorrowful  reflections  on  the  guilt  and 
degradation  of  idolatry.  The  description,  given 
by  ]Mrs.  Judson,  of  the  pagoda,  and  of  the  cere- 
monies and  offerings  with  which  the  worship  of 
Gaudama  is  there  celebrated,  is  subjoined,  as  an 
appropriate  accompaniment  and  illustration  of  the 
plate : 

"  This  is  the  season  for  the  great  feast  of  Gauda- 
ma. It  commenced  yesterday,  and  it  is  to  continue 
for  three  days.  It  is  observed  all  over  the  countiy  ; 
but  I  presume  the  multitude  collected  in  this  place 
is  much  greater  than  at  any  other,  excepting  Ava. 
Priests  and  people  come  in  boats  from  a  great  dis- 
tance, to  worship  at  the  pagoda  in  this  place,  which 
is  supposed  to  contain  a  relic  of  Gaudama.  The 
viceroy,  on  these  days,  goes  out  in  all  the  pomp 
and  splendor  possible,  dressed  and  ornamented 
with  all  his  msignia  of  office,  attended  by  the  mem- 
bers of  government  and  the  common  people.  After 
kneeling  and  worshipping  at  the  pagoda,  they  gen- 
erally spend  the  day  in  amusements,  such  as  boxing, 
dancing,  singing,  theatrical  exhibitions,  and  fire- 
works. Most  of  the  older  people  spend  the  night 
at  the  pagoda,  and  listen  to  the  instructions  of  the 
priests. 


PAGODA    AT    RAXGOON.  J35 

"  Great  and  expensive  offerings  are  made  at  this 
season.  One  last  year,  presented  by  a  member  of 
government,  cost  three  thousand  tickals,  or  twelve 
hundred  dollai-s.  It  was  a  kind  of  portable  pagoda, 
made  of  bamboo  and  paper,  richly  ornamented  with 
gold  leaf  and  paintings.  It  was  a  hundred  feet  in 
height,  and  the  circumference  of  its  base  about  fifty. 
Half  way  up  its  height,  was  a  man  ludicrously 
dressed,  vnth  a  mask  on  his  face,  white  wmgs  on  his 
shoulders,  and  artificial  finger  nails,  two  inches  in 
length,  in  tlie  posture  of  dancing.  This  oflTering  was 
carried  by  sixty  men,  preceded  by  a  band  of  music, 
and  followed  by  the  ofiicer  who  made  it,  and  his 
suite.  Other  offerings  presented  at  this  festival  are 
various  kinds  of  artificial  trees,  the  branches  and 
twigs  of  which  are  filled  with  cups,  bowls,  handker- 
chiefs, and  garments  of  all  descriptions ;  these  are 
given  to  the  slaves  attached  to  the  pagoda,  who,  the 
week  following,  have  something  like  a  fair,  to  dispose 
of  their  offerings. 

"  The  pagoda,  to  wliich  such  multitudes  resort,  is 
one  of  the  largest  and  most  splendid  m  the  empire. 
After  having  ascended  a  flight  of  steps,  a  large  gate 
opens,  when  a  wild,  fairy  scene  is  abruptly  presented 
to  view.  It  resembles  more  the  descriptions  we 
sometimes  have  in  novels,  of  enchanted  castles,  or 
ancient  abbeys  in  ruins,  than  anything  we  ever  meet 
in  real  fife.  The  gi'ound  is  completely  covered  with 
a  variety  of  ludicrous  objects  which  meet  the  eye  in 


136  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

every  direction,  interspersed  with  the  banyan,  cocoa- 
nut,  and  toddy  trees.  Here  and  there  are  large  open 
buildings,  containhig  hUji;e  images  of  Gaudama; 
some  in  a  sitthig,  some  in  a  sleepmg  position,  sur- 
rounded by  images  of  priests  and  attendants,  in  the 
act  of  worship,  or  hstening  to  his  instructions.  Be- 
fore the  unage  of  Gaudama  are  erected  small  altars, 
on  which  offerings  of  fruit,  flowers,  &c.  are  laid. 
Large  images  of  elephants,  hons,  angels,  and  demons, 
together  with  a  number  of  indescribable  objects, 
all  assist  in  filhng  the  picturesque  scene. 

"  The  ground  on  which  this  pagoda  is  situated, 
commands  a  view  of  the  surrounding  country,  w^hich 
presents  one  of  the  most  beautiful  landscapes  in 
nature.  The  polished  spires  of  the  pagodas,  glisten- 
ing among  the  trees  at  a  distance,  appear  like  the 
steeples  of  meeting-houses  in  our  American  sea- 
ports. The  verdant  appearance  of  the  country,  the 
hills  and  valleys,  ponds  and  rivers,  the  banks  of 
which  are  covered  with  cattle,  and  fields  of  rice, — 
all,  in  their  turn,  attract  the  eye,  and  cause  the 
beholder  to  exclaun,  '  Was  this  dehghtful  country 
made  to  be  the  residence  of  idolaters  ?  Are  those 
ghttering  spires,  which,  in  consequence  of  association 
of  ideas,  recall  to  mind  so  many  animating  sensa- 
tions, but  the  monuments  of  idolatiy?'  Oh!  my 
friend !  scenes  like  these,  productive  of  feelmgs  so 
various  and  opposite,  do,  notwithstanding,  fire  the 
Boul  with  an  unconquerable  desire  to  make  an  effort 


PAGODA    AT   RANGOON.  137 

to  rescue    this   people    from    destruction,  and  lead 
them  to  the  Rock  that  is  liigher  than  they."* 

In  1824,  the  pagoda  was  occupied  by  the  EngUsh 
troops  as  a  fortress,  and  was  defended,  by  a  small 
force,  against  the  attacks  of  a  large  Burman  army 
who  made  several  assaults  upon  it,  but  who  were 
at  last  obliged  to  retire,  with  the  loss  of  a  great 
number  of  men. 

*  Memoir  of  Mrs.  Judson,  p.  164, 165.  4th  edition. 
12* 


TO   THE   EYE. 


BY    THE   AUTHOR    OF    "  MODERN    GREECE. 


Throne  of  expression  !  whence  the  spirit's  ray 
Pours  forth  so  oft  the  light  of  mental  day, 
Where  Fancy's  fire,  Affection's  melting  beam, 
Thought,  Genius,  Passion,  reign  in  turn  supreme, 
And  many  a  feeling  words  can  ne'er  impart, 
Finds  its  own  language  to  pervade  the  heart ; 
Thy  power,  bright  orb,  what  bosom  hath  not  felt. 
To  thrill,  to  rouse,  to  fascinate,  to  melt. 
And,  by  some  spell  of  undefined  control, 
With  magnet  influence,  touch  the  secret  soul  ? 

Light  of  the  features  !  in  the  morn  of  youth. 
Thy  glance  is  nature,  and  thy  language  truth ; 
And,  ere  the  world,  with  all-corrupting  sway. 
Hath  taught  e'en  thee  to  flatter  and  betray, 
Th'  ingenuous  heart  forbids  thee  to  reveal. 
Or  speak  one  thought  that  interest  would  conceal : 
While  yet  thou  seem'st  the  cloudless  mirror,  given 
But  to  reflect  the  purity  of  Heaven ; — 
Oh  !  then,  how  lovely,  there,  unveiled,  to  trace 
Th'  unsullied  brightness  of  each  mental  grace  ! 


TO    THE    EYE.  139 

When  Genius  lends  thee  all  his  living  light. 
Where  the  full  beams  of  intellect  unite, 
When  Love  illumes  thee  with  his  varying  ray, 
Where  trembling  Hope  and  tearful  Rapture  play, 
Or  Pity's  melting  cloud  thy  beam  subdues, 
Tempering  its  lustre  with  a  veil  of  dews,— 
Still  does  thy  power,  whose  all-commanding  spell 
Can  pierce  the  mazes  of  the  soul  so  well, 
Bid  some  new  feeling  to  existence  start, 
From  its  deep  slumbers  in  the  inmost  heart. 

And,  oh  !  when  thought,  in  ecstasy  sublime, 
That  soars  triumphant  o'er  the  bounds  of  time, 
Fires  thy  keen  glance  with  inspiration's  blaze. 
The  light  of  Heaven,  the  hope  of  nobler  days 
(As  glorious  dreams,  for  utterance  far  too  hiffh. 
Flash  through  the  mist. of  dim  mortality). 
Who  does  not  own,  that,  through  thy  lightning  beams, 
A  flame  unquenchable,  unearthly,  streams  ? 
That  pure,  though  captive  effluence  of  the  sky 
The  vestal-ray,  the  spark  that  cannot  die ! 


THE  REMONSTRANCE. 


"  Women;  in  the  course  of  action,  describe  a  smaller  circle 
than  men  5  but  the  perfection  of  a  circle  consists  not  in  its 
dimensions,  but  in  its  correctness." 

Hannah  More. 


BY   MISS   ANNE    TATLOR. 


*  *  *  *  why  this  hopeless  feud  ? 

This  worse  than  civil  strife, 
Wliich  long,  with  poisoned  darts,  has  strewed 

The  vale  of  social  life  ? 

To  each,  an  helpmate  each  was  made. 

Congenial,  but  diverse : 
The  rougher  path  was  his  to  tread ; 

The  mild  domestic,  hers. 

His  iron  arm  was  braced  for  toil, 

Or  danger's  ruder  shock  ; 
To  win  the  cursed,  reluctant  soil, 

Or  fence  the  caverned  rock. 


^ 


THE    KEMOXSTRANCE.  141 

The  watchful  eye,  the  pliant  hand, 

To  gentler  duties  led. 
By  iier  the  rural  rite  \yas  planned, 

The  simple  table  spread. 

Composed,  retiring,  modest,  she ; 

Impeti.ious  he,  and  bra^-e : 
His  passions,  boisterous  as  the  sea ; 

Hers,  oil  upon  the  wave. 

Wearied  in  far-extended  chase. 

His  ready  meal  she  dressed ; 
With  smiles  illumed  liis  dwelling-place, 

With  kindness  soothed  his  breast. 

Thus,  in  the  days  of  ancient  man, 
Th'  harmonious  friendship  grew. 

Ere  yet  those  hostile  names  began 

The  tyrant  and  the  shrew 

'Twas  Nature's  will  that  each  obeyed  ; 

Nor  envious  question  rose : 
They  felt  for  mutual  semce  made  ; 

For  friends,  and  not  for  foes. 

But,  tired  of  Nature's  wise  control, 

Immediate  war  began  : 
He  had  the  power,  and,  proud  of  soul, 

Became  the  tyrant,  man. 


142  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Too  feeble  to  sustain  her  part. 

>S7ie  fell  a  sullen  prey ; 
Content,  by  influence  and  art, 

To  counteract  his  sway. 


Degenerate  with  degenerate  time. 
Still  wider  breach  was  seen  ; 

His  was  the  bold,  ferocious  crime 
Hers,  petulant  and  mean. 


Strange  !  thus  to  mar  the  plan  of  Heaven, 

Ingeniously  perverse ! 
To  turn  the  solace  it  had  given, 

A  blessing,  to  a  curse  ! 

Sure  'twas  a  cold,  mimanly  pride, 

The  harmony  that  broke : 
Why  should  the  oak  the  hly  chide, 

Because  she's  not  an  oak  ? 

If  all  were  lihes,  where's  the  use, 
Or  strength,  the  forest  yields  ? 

If  oaks,  the  fragrancy  we  lose. 
And  beauty  of  the  fields. 

Through  followmg  ages,  dark  and  drear, 

Th'  unnatural  «ontest  ran ; 
Nor  generous  feeling  stole  a  tear 

From  hard,  obdurate  man ! 


THE    REMOXSTRAXCE.  143 

Woman  his  haughty  will  consigned 

In  joyless  paths  to  run  ; 
No  beam  of  day-hght  reached  her  mind, 

And  sages  said  she'd  none. 

At  length  the  brilliant  western  star 

Of  knowledge  'gan  to  rise ; 
The  mists  of  ignorance,  afar, 

Rolled  sullen  from  the  skies. 

Neglected  woman,  from  the  night 

Of  dark  oppression  raised, 
Caught  the  fair  dawn  of  mental  light, 

And  blessed  it  as  she  gazed. 

One  champion,  hardy  and  alone, 

Stood  forth  her  cause  to  plead : 
But  no  ;  the  weapons  we  disown, 

That  ask  a  martial  deed. 

Enlightened  feehng  shall  subdue, 

Or  may  we  still  endure. 
Nor  brave  a  combat,  though  we  knew 

Tiiat  \'ictor}'  were  sure. 

Triumph  were  only  bright  defeat ; 

Disgrace,  the  laurel  crown  : 
Our  conquest  is  composed  retreat. 

Concealment  our  reno^vn. 


144  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

The  right  that  Nature  gave  we  claim, — 

Just  honors  of  our  kind : 
We  envy  not  the  manly  frame 

Of  body  or  of  mind. 

Man,  in  his  way,  perfection  knows ; 

And  ive  as  much  in  ours ; 
The  violet  is  not  the  rose, 

Yet  both  alike  are  flowers. 

Thus  Venus  round  a  narrow  sphere 

Conducts  her  silver  car ; 
Nor  aims,  nor  seems  to  interfere, 

With  Jove's  imperial  star. 

Athwart  the  dark  and  deep'ning  gloom 

Their  blending  rays  unite. 
And  with  commingled  beams  illume 

The  drear  expanse  of  night. 

Boyle,  Locke,  and  Newton,  deep  in  lore, 

Marl's  lofty  annals  trace  ; 
Edgeworth,  and  Hamilton,  and  More^ 

Our  living  annals  grace. 

His  soul  is  thoughtful  and  profound, 

Her^s  brilliant  and  acute — 
Plants  cultured  each  in  different  ground, 

And  bearing  different  fruit. 


THE    REMONSTRANCE.  145 

Among  the  social  duties  led, 

Where  each  excels  in  part, 
Man's  proudest  gloiy  is  his  head, 

A  woman's  is  her  heart. 

Unwearied,  in  the  toilsome  course, 

He  chmbs  the  hill  of  fame. 
Takes  immortalit}-  by  force. 

And  wins  a  mighty  name. 

Along  a  cool,  sequestered  way, 

Her  quiet  walk  she  winds ; 
Sheds  milder  sunshine  on  his  day, 

His  brow  with  flowers  binds. 


Of  ait  mtuitive  possessed. 
Her  infant  tram  she  rears  ; 

To  virtue  by  her  smiles  caressed 
Or  chastened  by  her  tears ; — 


Beside  the  flittmg  midnight  lamp. 
With  fond  and  wakeful  eye, 

Wipes  gently  off  the  dying  damp. 
Or  soothes  the  parting  sigh. 

'Tis  here  that  woman  brightest  shines 
(Though  bright  in  other  spheres) : 

Her  name  is  drawn  m  fairest  lines, 
When  written  by  her  tears. 
13 


146        .     THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Yet  not  tho  weak,  the  puny  thing, 

Subdued  to  silly  wo ; 
The  firmest  dignity  may  spring 

Where  softest  feelings  gi'ow. 

With  you  m  mental  fields  to  stray 

She  has  not  ill  assumed, 
And  follows  in  the  lucid  way 

Your  studies  have  illumed. 

Then  why,  *  *  *  *,  why  control 

That  dictate  of  the  heart, 
Which  could  not  feel  itself  a  whole, 

Till  woman  shared  a  part  ? 

Why  look  with  hard,  unkindly  view, 

On  woman's  frailer  part  ? 
As  if  the  weeds  of  folly  grew 

But  in  a  female  heart. 

In  sorrow  and  m  sm  combined, 
Both  sentenced  to  the  tomb, 

^Twould  better  speak  a  chastened  mind, 
To  cheer  each  other's  doom. 

Sweet  were  the  pilgrimage  of  those, 
Who,  hand  in  hand  to  heaven, 

Would  learn  the  cynic  eye  to  close. 
Forgiving  and  forgiven. 


THE    REMONSTRANCE.  147 

Eve  fled  for  refuge  from  her  shame, 

Her  gi-ief,  to  Adam's  breast ; 
The  ruined  hei'o  felt  the  claim, 

Nor  generous  love  repressed. 

Then,  still  let  generous  love  beguile 

The  weaiy  walk  of  Mfe  ; 
Nor  waste  a  sigh,  nor  lose  a  smile, 

In  jealousy  and  strife. 


THE  NEW  HEAVENS  AND  THE  NEW 
EARTH. 


"  Nevertheless,  we,   according  to  his  promise,  look   for  new 
heavens  and  a  new  earth,  wherein  dwelleth  righteousness." 

2  Peter,  iii.  13. 

"  And  I  saw  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth ;  for  the  first 
heaven  and  the  first  earth  were  passed  away." 

Rev.  xxi.  1. 


If,  in  this  lower  world,  where  sin  has  appeared, 
and  introduced  so  many  bitter  woes,  and  where  even 
the  very  soil  has  been  visited  with  a  curse ;  if  here 
Nature  smiles  so  sweetly,  and  the  birds  warble,  and 
the  flowers  breathe,  and  the  hills  wave  their  woods, 
on  waters  that  reflect  then*  beauties  ;  if  the  teemuig 
wonders  of  the  elements  surpass  our  feeble  powers 
to  describe,  and  seem  to  ask  for  the  intellect  of  an 
angel  or  the  inspiration  of  a  prophet, — oh!  liov/ 
magnificent  will  the  scenery  of  heaven  appear, 
when  the  curtain  which  now  conceals  eternity 
from  time   shall  be   removed ! 

"  What  gardens  there,  what  bowers  and  vales, 
What  living  streams,  melodious  gales, 
To  glad  the  immortal  climes  \" 


THE    NEW    HEAVENS,  &,c.  149 

If  the  sun  now  shines  from  the  heavens  upon  a 
dark  and  guilty  world  with  such  radiance  (and  who 
has  not  felt  that  it  is  a  pleasant  tiling  to  behold  the 
light  ?) ;  if  the  silver  moon  and  the  stars  of  heaven 
send  forth  so  pure  a  splendor  on  a  polluted  orb, — 
what  magnificence  and  glory  must  pervade  the 
dwelling-place  of  Deity,  where  there  is  no  night,  and 
where  there  is  the  open  vision  of  the  great  Source  of 
light !  If,  in  the  present  state,  there  are  so  many 
modifications  of  beauty  in  the  world ;  if  the  eye  be  so 
eloquent,  the  form  so  godlike  ;  if  bodies  born  to  die 
exhibit  such  sprightliness  and  grace  on  their  passage 
to  the  tomb, — how  glorious  to  gaze  on  bodies  of  ce- 
lestial birth,  the  dwelling-places  of  pure  mtelligence ! 
how  joyous  to  see  the  whole  population  shining  in 
immortal  youth,  all  free  from  the  curse  which 
pursues  man  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave!  holuiess 
in  eveiy  eye,  and  love  in  every  heart ! 

If  here  knowledge  is  good  for  the  soul  of  man, 
and  it  affords  interest  to  the  mind  to  enlarge  its 
acquamtance  with  God  and  his  will,  even  through 
a  glass  darkly ;  if  man  fiiids  a  cliann  in  penetrating 
into  the  ahnost  unearthly  imaginings  of  those  master 
minds  who  have  made  the  deepest  researches 
into  the  cause  and  reason  of  present  appearances, — 
oh!  what  ecstasies  will  be  felt  when  the  soul  is 
ripened,  when  all  mediums  are  removed,  wher. 
we  know  all  mysteries,  when  matter  and  mind  are 
ahke  unfolded  to  our  gaze,  and  we  are  students 
of  the  universe,  under  the  teachuig  of  the  blessed 
13* 


150  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

God,  the  great  First  Cause !  If  here,  where  our 
choicest  pleasures  are  short-hved,  wliere  smiles 
and  tears  keep  m  constant  familiarit}'^,  and  farewells 
unparadise  the  greenest  spots  in  our  pilgrimage, — 
if  here  we  can  extract  a  healing  bahn  from  the 
mterchange  of  affection, — then  what  holy  joy, 
what  pure  communion,  where  harmony  and  love 
aie  pei-petual  residents,  and  partings  are  unknowTi, 
where  the  fold  is  safe  from  intrusion^  and  the  only 
change  the  inhabitant  knows  is  from  bUss  to  bhss, 
from  joy  to  joy,  from  glory  to  gloiy !  If,  in  this 
unfriendly  world,  where  Satan  is  a  prince,  and 
sm  bears  power,  and  where  mipurity  mingles 
itself  with  our  holiest  services,  and  fear  takes  hold 
of  us  at  the  very  horns  of  the  altar, — if  even  here 
love  can  exert  such  a  constraining  influence,  and 
hope  can  impart  a  joy  full  of  immortahty  and  faith, 
can  give  present  peace,  and  reveal  the  beauties  of 
the  land  yet  afar  off,  then,  O  for  a  sight  of  the  land 
where  sin  has  no  place,  Satan  no  influence,  sorrow 
no  subject, — where  songs  of  praise  shall  never  be 
mterrupted  by  wandering  hearts  and  weary  powers ! 
If  we  experience  holy  pleasure  in  meditating  on 
the  trials  and  labors  of  a  Luther,  and  perusing  the 
pious  aspirations  of  a  Leighton, — in  dwelling  on  the 
eventful  history  of  the  church,  the  reasoning  of 
Paul,  the  songs  of  David,  and  the  words  of  Him 
who  spake  as  never  man  did, — what  will  it  be  to 
join  the  general  assembly  and  church  of  tlje  first- 
born, to  listen  to  the  trial  of  faith  from  the  patriarch's 


THE    NEW    HEAVENS,  &c.  151 

OAvn  lips,  and  listen  to  the  universal  acknowledg- 
ment, from  a  multitude  that  man  cannot  number, 
"  He  led  us  forth  by  the  right  way  I" — above  all,  how 
rapturous  the  transport  when  we  see  Jesus,  and 
ai-e  hke  him,  and  walk  under  his  guidance  ! 

If  it  affords  so  dehghtful  an  employment  to  the 
pious  mind  to  trace  the  mipressions  of  the  renewing 
spirit  upon  the  old  man,  and  to  trace  the  agency 
of  Heaven  in  all  the  multiphed  affaks  of  a  daily 
pro\ddence,  although  the  eye  be  dim,  and  the 
surrounding  clouds,  tlu'ough  wliich  we  gaze,  are 
dense, — then  how  dehghtful  to  sit  at  the  very 
feet  of  the  Mediator  and  the  God  of  providence, 
and  mark  how  wisdom,  and  truth,  and  love,  and 
mercy,  were  all  enhsted  in  the  economy  of  Pro\d- 
dence  and  the  methods  of  grace  for  om*  good 
on  earth  and  our  glory  in  heaven! 

If,  m  solitude  and  wo,  we  noAV  find  it  good  to 
draw  nigh  unto  God,  and  cast  all  our  cares  upon 
our  unseen  Friend, — if  true  joys  are  reaUzed  in 
uniting  with  our  fellow-worshippers  m  the  gates 
of  Zion, — how  transpoi*ting  will  be  our  rapture 
when  we  join  the  nations  of  the  redeemed,  and 
enter  upon  the  goodly  company  of  angels,  and  have 
heaven  for  a  sanctuaiy  and  eternity  for  a  Sabbath ! 
But  these  heavens  and  this  earth,  with  all  their 
beauties,  ai-e  fated  to  disappear;  theu-  final  hour 
is  decreed  by  Him  of  whom  Job  said,  "  I  know  that 
thou  canst  do  eveiy  thing ;"  by  Him  who  has 
declared,  "  Behold,  I  create  all  things  new." 


152  THE   CHRISTIAN    OFFERING- 

There  shall  be  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth, 
wherein  dwelleth  righteousness, — a  world  of  truth, 
and  hoUness,  and  peace;  for  the  mouth  of  the 
Lord  hath  spoken  it.  Then  why  are  men  intent 
upon  present  scenes,  bound  up  m  passing  events, 
satisfied  with  short-lived  pleasures?  Why  do  not 
men  hve  for  the  whole  of  tlieir  existence  ?  Why, 
in  the  enjoyment  of  gifts,  do  they  forget  the  Giver  ? 
Why  should  the  wayfaring  man,  who  dwells  in 
the  tent,  forget  his  home  and  his  fair  portion? 
Let  the  eye  of  faith  gaze  on  the  reahties  of  heaven, 
till,  charmed  with  their  beauty,  the  whole  man  is 
brought  under  the  influence  of  the  powers  of  the 
world  to  come. 

J.  O.  C. 


THE   BARD. 


Yes,  I  have  marked  his  beaming  eye, 
When,  bendmg  o'er  the  tuneful  lyre, 

He  drew  such  tones  of  melody 
As  listemng  angels  might  admire. 

But  when,  with  gentler  touch,  he  woke 

Its  soft  and  melancholy  strain. 
And  sung  the  heart  that  sorrow  broke, 

Or  mourned  the  captive's  galling  chain, — 

Her  holy  power  diffusing  round, 

Came  Mercy,  breathing  from  each  chord ; 

Oppression  heard,  and  fled  the  sound. 

And  Vengeance  dropped  the  murderous  sword. 

His  harp  is  mute,  his  song  is  past, 

His  eyes  are  closed  in  lasting  sleep 
And  o'er  that  lone  retreat — his  last — 

Dejected  Friendship  loves  to  weep. 

'Tis  said  that  hallowed  symphonies 
Are  heard  around  his  mournful  grave, 

Wiiere  day's  last  beam  of  beauty  hes 
Expiring  on  the  crimsoned  wave. 


154 


THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 


The  freshest  hue  that  spring  bestows, 
The  sweetest  flowers  of  summer's  bloom, 

Nature,  like  grieved  Aflfection,  shows, 
To  grace  that  miDstrel's  humble  tomb. 

But  vain  the  music  Fancy  hears, 
And  vain  the  bloom  that  paints  the  sod ; 

His  sph'it  asks  no  friendly  tears. 
He  sweeps  his  lyre  before  his  God. 

Enough  that  Mercy's  voice  was  known 
To  raise  his  hope,  and  calm  his  fear ; 

He  boasts  a  richer,  nobler  tone. 
Which  wondering  seraphs  love  to  hear. 

T.  H.  W. 


A   PRAYER. 


BY   REV.    GEORGE    W.    BETHUNE. 


Within  some  lonely  and  retired  spot, 

Unknown  to  all,  save  to  my  flock  and  thee, 

My  God,  be  mine  the  ^■illage  pastor's  lot, 
To  spend  my  days  in  cahu  utiht}\ 

And  w^hen  the  sweet-toned  bells,  at  holy  time, 
CaU  to  the  house  of  God  the  pious  few. 

Be  mine  to  lead  them  in  the  sunple  chime 

Of  praise  to  Him  to  whom  their  praise  is  due  ! 

And  be  it  mine  the  -widow's  bursting  heart. 
And  the  sad  oi-phan's  lonely  pang,  to  calm ; 

And  heal  the  wounded  spirit's  anguished  sjnart, 
AVith  holy  Gilead's  sorrow-heaMng  balm. 

And  be  it  mine,  beneath  the  lowly  shed, 

To  point  the  wandering  one  the  way  to  heaven  ; 

And  soothe  the  sufferings  of  the  dying  bed 
With  the  reviving  tale  of  sins  forgiven. 


156 


THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 


And  if,  my  God,  in  some  high-favored  hour, 
My  hfe  and  labors  be  approved  by  thee, 

I'll  envy  not  the  pride  of  pomp  and  power, 
Nor  sigh  for  earth's  sublimest  dignity. 


THE 


EXCEEDING  SINFULNESS   OF    SIN 


EXHIBITED  IN  THE  GOSPEL  OF  CHRIST. 


Sr    REV.  WILLIAM    HAMILTOJN". 


The  dispensations  of  Providence  furnish  us 
with  many  striking  and  awful  proofs  of  the 
criniinaUty  and  enormity  of  transgression.  The 
ravages  of  famine,  the  desolations  of  pestilence, 
the  wholesale  waste  and  havoc  of  war;  the  tur- 
bulence and  havoc  of  pubhc  life,  and  the  fretfulness, 
irritation  and  discord,  which  lower  over  private 
habitations,  and  darken  and  trouble  the  domestic 
circle;  the  savage  satisfaction  and  cold-blooded 
cruelty  with  which  the  mercenary  and  covetous 
batten  on  the  hapless  victims  of  their  rapacity  and 
violence ;  the  wrecks  of  the  most  expensive  schemes, 
and  the  frustration  of  the  dearest  hopes ;  the 
povert}',  disgrace  and  suffering,  which  tread  so 
closely  on  the  heels  of  vice ;  and  the  scenes  of  lam- 
entation and  sorrow  every  where  created  by  the 
ceaseless  operations  of  death, — all  most  loudly  pro- 
claim, that  it  is  an  evil  and  a  bitter  thing  to  depart 
14 


158  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

from  the  Most  High,  and  that  sin  is  alike  the  foe  of 
God,  and  the  plague  and  scourge  of  man. 

But,  calamitous  and  painful  as  they  are,  can  any 
one  of  these  events,  or  even  the  whole  of  them, 
when  taken  together,  convey  an  idea  half  so  deep  and 
affectuig,  of  the  turpitude  and  baseness  of  the  guilt 
and  atrocity  of  this  root  of  all  bitterness,  as  the  cross 
of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  ?  Let  the  smner  only 
reflect  on  the  divine  dignity,  the  infinite  perfections, 
the  uncreated  and  eternal  excellences  of  Him,  who, 
in  agony  and  blood,  was  suspended  there ;  let  him 
remember  that  the  illustrious  and  adorable  Sufferer 
was  no  less  than  the  l)rightness  of  the  Father's  glory, 
and  the  express  image  of  his  person  ;  He  whom  all 
the  angels  revere,  and  all  nature  obeys ; — let  him 
think  of  all  this,  and  then  say  what  must  be  the 
amount  of  the  evil  and  mahguity  of  sin,  which, 
before  mercy  could  be  extended  to  the  criminal, 
stretched  the  Holy  One  of  God  upon  the  accursed 
tree,  and  brought  the  Prince  of  life  to  the  darkness 
and  dust  of  death. 

Can  the  mind  conceive,  or  could  Omnipotence, 
with  all  its  vast  resources,  have  employed  a  means 
of  manifesting,  in  a  manner  by  the  ten  thousandth 
part  so  tremendous  and  moving,  the  unutterable, 
the  infinite  enormity  of  transgression,  as  the  suffei- 
ings  and  death  of  the  ahnighty  and  ever  blessed 
Immanuel  ?  Could  a  proclamation  from  the  throne 
of  the  Eternal,  announcing  his  detestation  of  this  foul 
and  loathsome  principle  of  mischief  and  of  misery. 


THE    SINFULNESS    OF    SIN.  159 

and  his  fixed  determination,  in  every  instance,  to 
punish  it  Avith  terrible  and  unsparing  rigor ;  could 
the  expulsion  of  the  angels  that  fell  from  the  regions 
of  Ught,  and  the  banishment  of  the  first  apostate 
human  pair  from  the  seat  of  innocence  and  bUss ; 
could  the  destruction  of  the  old  world  by  water,  the 
overthrow  of  the  cities  of  the  plam,  the  subversion 
of  the  whole  frame  of  nature  for  the  base  and  un- 
pious  revolt  of  man,  or  the  everlasting  anguish  and 
wailings  of  the  place  of  despah,  have  left  on  the 
mmd  of  the  criminal,  or  have  spread  over  the 
empire  of  Jehovah,  an  impression  half  so  deep  and 
indelible,  of  the  evil  and  danger  of  iniquity,  as  that 
which  is  produced  by  the  suffering  and  death  of 
the  Son  of  God  and  the  Lord  of  glory  ? 

The  anniliilation  of  the  material  universe,  with 
all  its  enormous  load  of  worlds,  the  never-ending 
wretchedness  and  ruin  of  all  the  guilty  inhabitants 
which  it  contains,  sad  and  disastrous  as  such 
catastrophies  may  appear,  shrink  into  insignificance, 
and  are  less  than  nothing,  when  compared  mth  the 
incarnation,  the  sufferings,  and  dying  agonies  of 
Immanuel !  They  are  only  creatures,  but  he  is  the 
ever-blessed  and  all-glorious  Creator.  Mighty  and 
immense  as  they  seem,  their  dimensions  are 
limited,  and  their  magnitude  and  value  can  easily  be 
told  by  Him,  who,  by  his  intelhgence  planned,  by 
his  power  produced,  and  by  his  unremitting  energy 
pervades,  sustams,  and  regulates  the  whole.  But 
what   bounds  can  we  assign   to  his  majesty  and 


160  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

grandeur,  or  what  mind  can  comprehend  the  per- 
fections and  the  glories  of  Him  who  speaks  and  it 
is  done,  who  commands  and  all  things  stand  fast ; 
who  formed  creation  by  a  word,  and,  were  it  this 
day  dissolved,  could  in  a  moment,  and  with  ease, 
replace  it ;  who  is  able  to  do  again  what  he  has 
uheady  done,  and  to  outdo  all  that  he  has  yet  per- 
formed ? — for  he  is  not  only  mighty,  but  almighty ; 
not  only  sufficient,  but  all-sufficient;  and  all  that 
he  has  hitherto  accomplished,  so  far  from  being  the 
measure  of  his  might,  is  but  a  mere  specimen  of  his 
power,  and,  when  compared  with  the  real  amount 
of  his  wisdom  and  his  strength,  is  no  more  than 
a  drop  to  the  ocean,  or  a  grain  to  the  globe. 

It  is  in  his  death,  accordingly,  and  there  only, 
where  we  see,  in  its  full  extent  and  in  all  its  match- 
less horrors,  the  exceedmg  sinfulness  of  sm,  and 
what  a  fearful  thing  it  is  to  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  hving  God.  It  is  here  where  Jehovah,  by 
the  magnitude  of  the  ransom,  has  published  over 
all  worlds,  and  perpetuated  to  eternity,  the  iimnensi- 
ty  of  our  guilt,  and  the  total  mability  of  man,  and 
every  other  creature,  to  expiate  the  demerit  of  a 
single  trespass,  or  I'epair  the  mischief  and  dishonor 
which  the  least  transgression  has  brought  upon  the 
authority  and  government  of  God.  It  is  hither, 
accorduigly,  that  the  best  and  the  highest  in  creation 
will  come  to  study  the  hoUness  of  his  character, 
and  learn  the  infinite  evil  and  malignity  of  sin. 
When   they  wish  to  discover  the  justice  of  their 


THE    SINFULNESS    OF    SIN.  161 

Maker,  and  impress  their  own  minds  with  the 
rectitude  and  inviolability  of  his  law,  passing  by  the 
place  of  perdition,  and  the  scenes  of  the  most  aAvful 
devastation  wliich  wickedness  has  created  in  the 
other  provinces  of  liis  domuiions,  they  will  turn 
their  thoughts  to  the  affecting  spot  which  the  suf- 
fei-inffs  of  the  Saviour  have  forever  emiobled  and 
hallowed,  and  fix  a  devout  and  admirmg  eye  on 
Him  who  bore  the  cross. 

Now,  if  nothing  less  than  the  sufferings  and 
sacrifice  of  a  person  of  the  divine  dignity,  and  of  the 
uncreated,  matchless  and  eternal  excellences  of  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  could  expiate  the  guilt  of  oiu* 
transgressions,  and  redeem  us  from  the  aw^ul 
consequences  of  our  cranes,  how  great  must  be  the 
sinfulness  of  sin,  and  what  a  fearful  thing  must  it  be 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  hving  God  ! 
14* 


A  LAMENT   FOR   ELLEN. 


BY  MRS.  M'CARTEE. 


The  circumstances  wliich  elicited  the  following  lines  were  these : — 
The  writer,  passing  through  a  town  on  the  banks  of  the  Susque- 
hannah,  was  greeted  with  a  cordial  welcome  by  a  young  friend, 
possessed  of  exquisite  loveliness,  and  in  all  the  bloom  and  vigor  of 
health.  At  parting,  it  was  agreed  to  meet  again  in  a  week.  The 
writer  returned— and  found  Ellen  cold,  pale  and  lifeless.  The  spirit 
which  once  inhabited  the  lovely  mansion  had  fled  forever. 


"  The  flower  of  the  grass  falleth,  and  the  grace  of  the  fashion 
of  it  perisheth." 


Now  sadly  roll  thy  waves  of  blue, 

Sweet  Susqiiehannah,  beauteous  river ; 

The  loveliest  flower  thy  borders  knew 
The  frosts  of  Death  have  nipped  forever. 

Ah !  where  is  now  the  sparkling  eye, 

Those  locks  of  brown  in  ringlets  waving, 

Those  blooming  cheeks  of  roseate  dye,. 
That  witching  smile  each  heart  enslaving  ? 


A   LAM  EXT    FOR    ELLEN.  163 

That  fairy  form  hath  passed  away ; 

Those  sparkling  eyes  m  deatli  are  shaded ; 
No  more  those  sportive  ringlets  play 

Around  those  cheeks  so  cold  and  faded. 

They've  laid  thee  in  thy  last,  lone  bed, 
And  placed  the  cold  sod  o'er  thy  bosom ; 

^Vhile  bitter  tears  each  mourner  shed, 
For  tliee,  sweet  floweret,  short-lived  blossom. 

But  may  thy  spirit  brighter  shine. 

An  angel  pure  in  yonder  heaven, 
To  smg,  in  accents  all  divine, 

Of  Jesus'  love  and  sins  forgiven ! 

We'll  plant  a  lily  on  thy  gi*ave, 

Emblem  of  thee,  once  lovely  Ellen  ; 

While  autumn's  winds  shall  wildly  rave 
Around  thy  dark  and  narrow  dwelling. 

Now  sadly  roll  thy  waves  of  blue. 

Sweet  Susquehannah,  beauteous  river ; 

The  fairest  flower  thy  borders  knew 
The  frosts  of  Death  have  nipped  forever. 


METASTASIO 


SPREZZA  IL  FUROR  DEL  VENTO. 


Unbending  midst  the  wintry  skies, 
Rears  the  finn  oak  his  vigorous  form, 

And,  stern  in  rugged  strength,  defies 
The  rushing  of  the  storm ; 

Then,  severed  from  his  native  shore. 
O'er  ocean  worlds  the  sail  to  bear. 

Still  with  those  winds  he  braved  before, 
He  proudly  struggles  there. 


MINISTERIAL   EDUCATION. 


BY    B.    B.    EDWARDS. 

To  assert  the  importance  of  the  office  of  the 
Christian  minister  is  not  my  design.  On  tliis  pomt, 
the  word  and  providence  of  God  bear  united  and 
unequivocal  testimony.  The  Jews  were  preserved 
from  mingUng  with  the  heathen  aroimd  them  by  the 
instructions  and  example  of  the  sons  of  Le-vi. 
Throughout  the  Roman  empire,  wherever  the 
gospel  was  preached  there  were  better  men  and 
better  communities.  It  was  l^y  the  declaration 
of  the  truths  of  God's  word,  that  Lutlier  and  his 
coadjutors  broke  the  slumber  of  centuries,  and 
called  the  dead  to  life.  Our  ancestors  m  Britain 
were  turned  from  the  worship  of  demons  to  the 
service  of  the  Lord  by  the  preaching  of  the  gos- 
pel. In  eveiy  country,  ancient  and  modern,  the 
degree  of  public  vutue  and  of  private  happiness  can 
be  esthnated  by  the  character  of  the  ministers  of 
religion. 

The  obvious  considerations  which  are  adduced  in 
support  of  the  plans  and  measures  of  our  education 
societies,  I   do  not  wish,  in  tliis  place,  to   repeat. 


166  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

There  are  some  indirect  and  collateral  arguments 
which  seem  worthy  of  notice,  and  which  have  not 
received  that  attention  which  they  deserve. 

The  first  argument  which  I  shall  mention  is  the 
benefit  which  the  lower  and  more  ignorant  classes 
in   society   receive   through  the   medium   of  these 
institutions.     It  is  a  well  known  fact,  that  in  every 
part  of  this  land,  not  excepting  New  England,  there 
is  lamentable  and  degi-ading  ignorance.    The  streams 
of  kno-\vledge  do  not  circulate  through  the  whole 
cpmmunity.     The  pulsations  at  the  heart  may  be 
warm  and  vigorous,  while  the  extremitieg;,  are  cold 
and  dead.     In  nearly  all  our  towns,  there  ^  a  por- 
tion  of  the  inhabitants  separate,  in  a  considerable 
degree,  from  certain  other  portions.     The  districts 
in  which  they  live  are  proverbially  degraded,  and 
designated    by  some    opprobrious    and    outlandish 
epithet,  where  the  dregs  of  society  flow  as  to  their 
natural  reservoir.     This   ignorance  is  not  by  any 
means  an  utter  midnight  of  the  soul.     Our  largest 
city  exhibits  nothing  like  those  putrid  and  bottomless 
gulfs  of   iniquity,   which    in   Paris  swallow  up  a 
whole  generation  at  once.     The  ignorance  in  this 
country  has  not  that  rank  maturity  which  is  manifest 
in  Paris,  and  Vienna,  and  Rome ;  but  it  is  diffused, 
and  exists  every  where.    The  same  forms  of  mis- 
chief are  at  work  here  as  in  the  old  world. 

Towards  the  correction  and  entire  removal  of 
this  ignorance,  education  societies  can  be  made  to 
exert  a  most  efficient  instrimientaUty.     Of  the  fifteen 


MINISTERIAL    EDUCATION.  167 

hundred  men  whom  they  have  nurtured  within 
twenty  years  past,  at  least  one  half  were  gathered 
from  the  lower  classes  in  society ;  and  not  a  few 
from  the  most  ignorant  and  depressed  famihes. 
This  is  not  mentioned  invidiously,  or  as  a  matter 
of  reproach,  but  as  an  interesting  fact.  Taken  up 
in  such  circumstances,  and  conducted  into  the  paths 
of  knowledge,  and  stimulated  vnth  new  hopes, 
and  breathing  in  a  new  atmosphere,  they  instinc- 
tively feel  a  deep  interest  in  the  scenes  of  then' 
nativity  and  childhood,  and  in  the  companions  of 
their  youthful  sports  and  labors.  The  hght  of 
knowledge  no  sooner  breaks  in  upon  their  own 
souls,  than  they  are  anxious  to  impart  it  to  their 
friends.  "  The  ample  page  of  knowledge"  is  no 
sooner  unfolded  to  their  gaze,  than  they  wish  to 
spread  it  before  the  eyes  of  their  parents,  and 
brothers,  and  sisters.  The  progi-ess  of  these  young 
men  in  literature  and  science  can  be  traced  m  the 
meliorating  condition  of  their  distant  relatives.  The 
neighljorhood  in  which  they  resided  becomes  more 
intellectual,  is  better  furnished  with  profitable  topics 
of  conversation,  and,  with  instructive  books,  becomes 
more  interested  in  distant  objects  and  future  good. 
An  educated  man,  if  he  retams  the  common 
sympathies  and  associations  of  human  nature,  wiU 
ever  be  an  interesting  object  of  contemplation  by  all 
who  knew  him  in  his  early  days.  He  sheds  the 
hght  of  a  beneficent  and  attractive  example.  He  is 
often  a  redeeming  spirit,  an  angel  of  mercy,  in  the 


168  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

circle  with  which  he  was  familiar  in  early  life. 
The  education  society  aims  to  seek  out  the  genius 
which  lies  hidden  in  the  lower  classes  of  society. 
Not  unfrequently,  in  the  wildest  portions  of  our 
valleys  and  mountains,  it  has  found  genuine  talent 
and  moral  worth, — concealed,  perhaps,  beneath  the 
vestments  of  rigorous  poverty,  and  the  awkwardness 
of  an  untutored  demeanor, — talent  and  worth  suf- 
ficient to  command  the  respect  and  esteem  of 
communities  and  nations. 

Another  consideration  which  I  shall  adduce  re- 
sults from  the  fact,  that  powerful  excitement  is  a 
marked  characteristic  of  this  age  and  of  this  coun- 
try. The  success  of  every  institution,  of  every 
kind,  is  coming  to  depend  more  and  more  upon 
mdividual  effort  and  ceaseless  competition.  This 
creates  mutual  collision  and  an  unwearied  and 
boundless  activity.  In  eveiy  department  of  labor 
and  effort,  it  is  common  for  men  to  meet  together 
in  large  assemblages,  and,  under  the  influence  of 
numerous  exciting  causes,  to  adopt  bold  and  un- 
attempted  measures.  It  is  also  perfectly  safe  to 
predict  that,  for  fifty  years  to  come,  the  face  of 
society  in  this  country  will  be  still  more  strongly 
agitated  and  convulsed.  Eveiy  extension  of  the 
hmits  of  this  nation  separates  more  widely  the  feel- 
ings and  opinions  of  those  who  live  at  the  extrein- 
ities.  There  is  less  and  less  of  sympathy  and  fellow- 
feeling.  The  public  press  will  increase  and  propa- 
gate this  excitement  in  a  thousand  forms.     In  1810, 


MIXISTEEIAL    EDUCATION.  169 

there  were  but  three  himdred  and  fifty  newspapers 
published  in  this  countiy.  Now,  there  are  more  than 
one  thousand.  In  ten  years  hence,  they  will  proba- 
bly amount  to  two  thousand.  Who  can  estimate  the 
amount  of  agitated  feehng  which  will  flow  out  from 
these  fountains  ?  Besides,  there  are  some  great 
questions,  partly  pohtical  and  partly  moral,  wliich,  in 
the  next  half  century,  will  be  brought  to  an  issue. 
One  of  these  is  the  question  in  regard  to  our  slave 
population.  Is  slavery  to  cease  gradually  and  safely, 
or  is  it  to  be  swept  away  by  the  breath  of  ahnightj'' 
justice  ?  This  is  a  matter  of  veiy  gi*ave  import, 
which  contains  in  itself  the  elements  of  an  intense 
and  overwhelming  excitement. 

Revivals  of  religion,  which  have  already  been 
productive  of  incalculable  good  to  the  American 
churches,  will  probably  be  a  still  more  marked 
feature  of  the  coming  age.  These  are  seasons  of 
deep  and  absorbing  emotion,  when  the  passions  of  a 
community  have  not  unfrequejitly  been  wrought  up 
to  the  highest  point  of  endurance. 

Now,  what  is  the  obvious  dut}^  of  the  church  in 
view  of  all  these  circumstances  ?  Would  she  re- 
press these  strong  emotions?  Would  she  diy  up 
this  current  of  feeling,  and  give  a  sober  characteris- 
tic to  the  next  generation  ?  It  were  as  vain  as  to 
try  to  annul  the  ordinances  of  Heaven.  The  spirit 
of  this  age  cannot  be  chained.  No  dikes  can  be 
thrown  up  against  these  waves  of  excited  senti- 
ment. 

15 


170  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

The  obvious  duty  is,  to  establish  as  many  checks 
and  great  balancing  powers  as  possible.  Men  of 
well  disciplined  minds,  and  of  vigorous  piety,  can 
shape  and  control  public  feeling  almost  as  they  wish. 
They  have  wisdom,  foresight,  experience.  Station 
an  exemplary  and  well  prepared  minister  in  every 
city  and  considerable  village  m  the  United  States, 
and  you  can  turn  this  popular  excitement  to  great 
and  most  beneficial  purposes.  Knowledge  and 
holiness,  united,  are  power,  in  the  best  sense.  The 
salvation  of  our  country,  under  God,  is  depending, 
most  ijitimately  and  essentially,  on  a  large  increase 
in  the  number  of  such  men  as  have  the  wisdom 
to  apprehend,  and  the  piety  to  love,  and  the  steadi- 
ness to  maintain,  those  great  principles  of  morals 
and  of  religion,  which  have  stood  the  test  of  the 
scrutiny  of  ages. 

Another  consideration  of  great  importance  is  the 
fact,  that  the  church  of  God  is  now  taking  a  peculiar 
attitude.  Sheisassuming  that  form  which  she  had  in  the 
primitive  ages,  when  to  "  believe,  to  love,  and  to  suf- 
fer," was  her  motto ;  when  her  Bible  and  her  Saviour 
were  dearer  to  her  heart  than  all  the  rewards  which 
earth  could  offer.  There  was  a  palpable  and  marked 
distmction  between  her  and  the  children  of  this 
world.  This  is  the  aspect  which  the  church  is 
now  beginning  to  assume.  While  she  feels  a  deep 
compassion  for  the  enemies  of  the  cross,  whether 
withhi  her  pale  or  without,  she  wishes  to  have 
her     own   limits    perfectly   defined     and    distinct. 


MINISTERIAL    EDUCATION.  171 

She  wishes  to  have  her  own  members  all  separate 
and  holy,  so  that  they  may  move  forward  to  the  con- 
flict, one  disciphned  and  compact  body.  But  fully 
to  make  this  separation,  perfectly  to  accompUsh 
this  object,  will  require  efforts  and  sacrifices,  on 
the  part  of  her  ministers,  such  as  have  never  yet 
been  known.  They  must  understand  the  Bible 
better,  and  be  able  to  communicate  its  heavenly 
doctrines,  with  greater  clearness,  to  eveiy  disciple, 
in  that  manner,  and  m  that  measure,  which  the 
ten  thousand  varying  circumstances  of  individuals 
may  require.  There  must  be  a  gi-eater  di\ision 
of  labor.  There  must  be  captains  of  hundreds 
and  of  fifties,  as  well  as  of  thousands.  One  great 
cause  of  the  premature  fall  of  so  many  of  the 
watchmen  of  Zion  is  the  heavy  '  additional  labor 
which  the  benevolent  spuit  of  this  age  calls  on 
them  to  perform. 

And  while  this  division  is  making  between  the 
church  and  the  world,  would  you  not  allure  into 
the  bosom  of  the  church  as  many  as  possible  of  the 
opposmg  ranks?  Would  you  not  send  to  the 
great  multitude  lying  under  the  condemnation  of 
God's  law  as  many  heralds  of  mercy  as  possible  ? 
Would  you  not  throw  into  the  midnight  darkness 
which  envelopes  them  as  many  stars  fi*om  heaven 
as  you  can?  W^ould  you  not  furnish  them,  on 
the  dark  and  troubled  ocean  of  hfe,  with  as  great 
a  number  of  skilful  pilots  as  can  be  found?  But 
these  labors  will   call,  must   call,   for   a   great   in- 


172  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

crease  in  the  number  of  faithful  ministers.  When 
the  church  of  God  is  to  arise  from  the  dust,  those 
who  serve  at  her  akars  must  be  wakeful,  and  fully 
prepared  for  every  good  work ;  and  their  num- 
ber must  bear  some  proportion  to  the  gi-eatness 
and  difficulty  of  the  work  to  be  accomphshed. 
Their  conflict  is  not  to  be  with  flesh  and  blood, 
but  of  intellect  with  intellect,  and  conscience  with 
conscience,  and  heart  with  heart. 

Now,  it  is  an  mteresting  and  encouraging  fact, 
that  the  men,  whom  education  societies  propose 
to  bring  foward  to  the  Christian  miuistry,  are  well 
adapted  to  meet  this  exigency.  The  men  who  are 
patronized,  are  mostly  from  that  class  who  have 
firm  nerves  and  iron  resolution,  who  can  face  the 
elements,  and  weather  the  storm. 

Another  argument  in  support  of  education  socie- 
ties proceeds  from  the  fact,  that,  for  a  number  of 
years  to  come,  there  must  be  a  considerable  sacri- 
fice of  hfe  in  the  missionary  enterprise.  In  every 
part  of  the  unevaugehzed  world,  a  beginning 
must  be  made  by  missionaries  from  Christendom. 
They  must  explore  the  territory,  select  the  gromid, 
establish  the  primary  school,  gather  around  them 
a  little  band  of  disciples,  and,  in  this  way,  re- 
move all  the  incipient  difficulties.  The  native 
converts  will  be  the  chosen  instruments  to  caiTy 
to  the  great  body  of  the  people  the  messages  of 
salvation.  In  this  way  Africa  will,  doubtless,  be 
converted  to  God.     Her  boundless  forests,  and  her 


MINISTERIAL    EDUCATION. 


173 


burning  sands,  are  to  be  traversed  by  native,  negro 
missionaries.  The  colonies  along  her  western 
coasts  are,  probably,  intended,  in  the  pro^ddence 
of  God,  to  train  men  for  tliis  service.  They  will 
furnish  the  seed,  which  will  be  sown  "  in  broad 
cast"  over  this  neglected  continent.  The  colonies 
-will  be  to  those  desert  regions  a  place  of  broad 
rivers  and  sti-eams.  Nevertheless,  these  colonies 
must  be  estabhshed,  these  schools  must  be  com- 
menced, these  native,  pioneer  missionaries  must 
be  converted  to  God  by  the  instrumentality  of 
white  missionaries.  This  work  will  demand,  for 
a  few  years,  a  considerable  sacrifice  of  hfe.  Men 
must  be  found  willing  to  do  as  much  for  their 
fellow-men,  in  six  or  eight  years,  as  Christians 
will  have  opportunity  to  do,  in  forty  years,  when 
Christianity  is  more  firmly  and  extensively  estab- 
lished. Those  men  who  will  preach  Christ  where 
ho  has  never  been  named,  must  meet  with  ap- 
palling obstacles,  must  submit  to  exhausting  labor, 
must  be  exposed  to  every  variety  of  clunate. 
Like  Martyn,  they  must  be  prepared  for  the  blaze 
of  a  scorching  sun  by  day,  and  at  night  to  lay 
their  throbbing  heads  on  the  damp  earth  ;  or  hke 
that  devoted  woman,  who  sleeps  on  an  isle  of  the 
Indian  ocean;  or  like  that  other,  her  companion 
in  tribulation,  who,  after  languishing  in  dungeons, 
and  flying  before  contending  armies,  now  rests  in 
hope  on  the  plains  of  Birmah.  Missionaries,  for 
a  few  years  to  come,  must  early  fall  victims  to 
15* 


174  THE    CHRISTIAN   OFFERING. 

death.  Incessant  fatigue  and  hardship  must  cut 
short  life.  Who  will  supply  their  places?  Who 
will  step  in  to  fill  up  the  breach  ?  I  answer,  The 
church  must  be  prepared  for  this  exigency.  There 
must  be  a  number  of  men  brought  forward,  con-e- 
sponding  to  the  call  which  will  be  made  from  this 
quarter.  It  is  not  to  supply  a  definite  number  of 
missionaries  who  will  be  expected  to  five  the  usual 
life  of  man.  Calculation  ought  to  be  made  for 
many  who  will  die  early.  The  church  needs  a 
forlorn  hope — men  who  will  be  willing  to  die  in  the 
first  battle ;  who  will  pant  for  nobler  honors  than 
those  of  Warren,  who  fell  "  ere  he  saw  the  star 
of  his  country  rise" — for  such  rewards  as  those 
which  shall  forever  cluster  upon  the  head  of 
Ashmun,  falling  before  tlie  chains  were  removed 
from  bleeding  Africa,  dying  before  Ethiopia  had 
tasted  of  the  waters  of  hfe. 

It  is  sometimes  said,  that  there  is  no  need  for 
extraordinaiy  effort  to  prepare  men  for  the  min- 
istry. The  supply,  as  in  other  things,  will  be 
equal  to  the  demand.  Men  will  be  found,  as 
stations  will  be  provided  for  them  to  occupy. 
But,  in  this  view  of  the  subject,  one  gi-eat  fact  is 
overlooked.  Tliree  fourths  of  the  human  race  loill 
make  no  demand  for  a  Christian  ministry.  They 
have  a  strong  reluctance,  a  total  opposition  to  the 
remedy  which  is  offered.  The  gospel  must  be 
carried  to  them.  IMen  must  go  to  heathen  lands, 
and  create  a  demand  for  the  bread  of  hfe.     Between 


MINISTERIAL    EDUCATION.  175 

the  condition  of  several  hundred  millions  of  stupid, 
degraded  pagans,  and  any  other  subject,  or  any 
other  want,  there  is  httle  or  no  analogy.  Education 
societies  will  not  be  a  needless  institution  till  the 
gospel  is  preached  to  every  creature  which  is  un- 
der heaven. 


THE  MORNING   STAR. 

Rev.  xxii.  IG. 

BY  THE  LATE  REV.  JAMES  EASTBURN. 


When  darkness  hovers  o'er  the  main, 

And  tempest  glooms  the  ocean's  face, 
And  Time  moves  on  his  skiggish  train 

With  even  and  unheeding  pace, — 
When  tumults  rend  the  nightly  air, 

And  w^ild  waves  murmur  as  they  flow, 
And  shrieks  of  anguish  and  despair 

Are  heard  upon  the  tempest's  brow, — 
How  anxious  looks  the  weary  eye. 

Through  howling  storms,  and  winds  afar, 
And  gazes  on  the  darkened  sky, 

To  watch  the  bright  and  Morning  Star ! 

So  when,  on  life's  tumultuous  wave. 

The  storms  of  sin  are  wildly  loud, 
And  hurry  to  the  gloomy  grave 

The  victims  of  the  tempest  cloud, — 
When  moral  darlmess  broods  around. 

When  every  scene  is  quenched  in  gloom, 
And  Horror  wakes  her  awful  sound. 

Without  one  ray  of  hght  or  bloom, — 


THE    MORNING    STAR.  177 

How  welcome  to  the  weary  e3"e 

The  hght  that  gently  shmes  afar, 
"When,  kindling  on  the  stormy  sky, 

Is  seen  the  bright,  the  Morning  Star ! 

It  shines  upon  the  sinner's  breast, 

Gives  hun  to  see  his  awful  path, 
And  leads  him  to  the  scenes  of  rest, 

Secure  from  God's  eternal  wrath. 
With  hoiTor,  from  his  former  way 

He  starts,  and  to  his  Saviour  turns ; 
With  him  resides  the  glorious  day : 

With  him  a  sacred  radiance  bums ; 
He  wipes  the  mourner's  weeping  eye  ; 

He  bears  liim  in  his  arms  afar ; 
He  crowns  him  in  his  Father's  sky ; 

He  is  ♦^he  bright  and  IMorning  Star ! 

Upon  that  bright  and  lovely  shore, 

The  tears  of  grief  are  washed  away. 
And  sin  and  sorrow  vex  no  more. 

Dissolved  in  that  eternal  day : 
Unnumbered  harps,  with  golden  strings. 

The  wonders  of  om*  jMaker  praise  ; 
And  many  a  voice  cherubic  shigs, 

Amid  the  inextinguished  blaze ; 
While,  glowing  on  each  raptured  eye, 

Jesus  is  seen,  not  then  afar. 
But  glorious  in  his  native  sky — 

The  pure,  the  bright  and  IMorning  Star ! 


178  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Then  let  us  turn,  ere  yet  too  late, 

And  seek  the  blessed  band  to  join, 
Ere  heaven  may  close  its  sapphire  gate. 

And  hurl  us  from  its  hope  divine ! 
Oh !  let  us  leave  the  things  of  earth. 

For  they  must  fade  and  pass  away  ; 
Oh  !  let  us  cling  to  those  whose  worth 

Shall  shine  in  everlasting  day ! 
Bright  opening  on  the  lovely  sky, 

A  liglit  is  seen  and  known  afar ; 
Oh !  be  it  welcome  to  our  eye : 

It  is  the  bright  and  Mornuig  Star  ! 

Jesus,  assist  us  wdth  thy  love  ; 

Cleanse  these  vile  hearts  from  every  stain  ; 
And  take  us  to  those  realms  above. 

Where  bliss  and  joy  forever  reign ! 
Teach  us  to  feel,  while  here  below, 

How  vile  our  noblest  thoughts  have  been, 
And  let  our  souls  wit]i  ardor  glow 

To  cast  aside  the  weight  of  sin ; 
So,  when  these  mortal  frames  shall  die. 

And  Death  agamst  us  wage  his  war, 
We  shall  be  blessed  in  the  sky, 

With  thee,  the  bright  and  Morning  Star ! 


HINTS  ON  LITERARY  HABITS. 


BY    REV.    JAMES    D.    KNOWLES. 

The  mind  is  the  glory  of  man.  IMany  of  the  irra- 
tional animals  exceed  him  in  size,  in  swiftness,  in 
acuteness  of  vision  and  of  ear,  and  some  of  them  in 
length  of  hfe.  But  the  mind,  that  imperial  endow- 
ment, gives  to  man  an  immeasurable  elevation  above 
all  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  earth. 

Nothing  has  ever  acquired  so  easy  and  so  durable 
a  supremacy  over  mankmd  as  intellectual  power. 
He  is  the  only  legitimate  sovereign  over  men,  who 
excels  them  in  the  endowments,  the  cultivation,  and 
the  beneficent  use  of  the  mind.  The  poet,  the  ora- 
tor, the  pliilosopher,  the  sculptor,  the  painter — he  is 
the  true  monarch,  swaying  not  the  bodies,  but  tlie 
minds  and  the  hearts  of  men ;  \\-ielding  a  dominion, 
not  bounded  by  rivers  and  mountains,  but  co-exten- 
sive with  the  civilized  world ;  not  terminating  with 
his  mortal  life,  but  reachmg  to  the  end  of  time.  It 
is  not  Agamemnon,  nor  Achilles,  nor  Priam,  but 
Homer  is  the  kiug  of  men,  whom  the  Ihad  has 
immortalized.  Demosthenes  and  Cicero  held  a 
sway,  and  won  a  fame,  compared  with  which  "  the 


^ 


180  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING 

laurels  that  a  Csesar  reaps  are  weeds."  Socrates  and 
Aristotle  have  controlled  more  minds  than  Alexander. 
The  best  records  of  past  ages  are  monuments  of 
the  glory  of  the  mmd.  It  is  their  poems,  their  ora- 
tions, their  sculpture,  then*  architecture,  which  have 
preserved  the  fame  of  the  ancients.  Nations,  dis- 
tinguished in  their  day  by  wealth,  by  population,  by 
fierce  wars,  and  by  wide  conquests,  have  been 
forgotten,  because  the  mind  had  no  share  in  their 
acliievements.  To  them  may  the  words  of  Horace 
be  very  justly  apphed : — 

''  Omnes  illachrymabiles 
Urgentur,  ignotique  longa 
Nocte,  quia  careut  vale  sacro." 

And  who,  that  justly  estimates  the  true  interests 
of  his  own  country,  does  not  desire  for  her  the 
honors  of  science  and  literature ;  the  distinctions 
which  spring  from  success  in  the  fine  arts :  the  emi- 
nence of  a  general  education ;  the  pure  fame  of  un- 
sullied morals  and  ujidefiled  religion ;  the  glory,  in 
short,  which  highly  cultivated  and  well  directed 
minds  will  confer,  rather  than  vast  wealth,  extended 
territory,  and  successful  war  ?  Who  would  not 
point  a  stranger  to  our  schools  and  colleges,  to  our 
unfettered  and  prolific  press,  to  the  general  diffusion 
of  knowledge,  and  to  our  free  institutions,  the  noblest 
fruits  of  the  strong  and  cultivated  intellect  of  the 
nation,  rather  than  to  the  great  rivers  and  moun- 
tains, to  our  ships  and  armies,  to  our  wealth  and 
power  ? 


HINTS    OX    LITERARY    HABITS.  181 

Yet,  while  our  common  nature  is  exalted  by  the 
achievements  of  learning  and  genius,  there  is  much 
in  the  structure  and  operations  of  the  mind  itself  to 
rebuke  the  pride  of  man.  The  progi-ess  of  the  most 
successful  scholar  is  soon  checked,  by  barriers  which 
tlie  mind  cannot  pass,  or  by  that  event  wliich  comes 
alike  to  all.  The  greatest  learning  most  clearly 
shows  men  how  httle  they  know.  Socrates  was 
pronounced  by  the  oracle  at  Delphi  the  wisest  of 
mankind,  because  he  most  strongly  felt  liis  ovm  ig- 
norance. And  Newton  spoke  of  his  o^\-n  wonderful 
attainments,  in  language  as  poetically  beautiful  as  it 
was  pliilosopliically  true,  that  he  seemed  to  himself 
like  a  child  picldng  up  shells  on  the  shore  of  the 
great  ocean  of  truth. 

Since,  then,  the  boundless  range  of  knowledge, 
the  narrowness  of  the  mind,  the  cares  of  life,  and 
its  speedy  termination,  make  it  impossible  to  learn 
and  to  accomplish  much,  it  is  an  inquiry  of  great 
moment,  How  shall  we  make  the  best  use  of  the  httlc 
space  allowed  us,  and  advance  the  farthest  in  the 
ilUmitable  field  spread  out  before  us  ?  A  few  hints, 
in  answer  to  this  inquiry,  will,  it  is  hoped,  be  deemed 
useful,  and  pertinent  to  the  object  of  this  book. 

We  might  speak  of  the  necessity  of  beginning 
education  early.  No  tune  is  to  be  lost,  in  a  life  so 
short  and  so  interrupted.  The  mind,  hke  the 
body,  begins  to  grow  from  the  day  of  its  birth. 
Education  should  begin  with  the  child.  The  in- 
fant school  is  one  of  the  greatest  discoveries  of  our 
16 


182  THE   CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

age.  It  is  destined  to  do  for  men  what  the 
alchemists  hoped  to  accomphsh  by  the  potent  ehxir 
which  they  so  ardently  sought.  It  will  lengthen 
life,  not  by  adding  to  the  extent  of  its  duration,  but 
by  redeenmig  from  waste  many  of  its  most  precious 
years.  The  Sabbath-school,  too,  is  a  kindred  insti- 
tution, Avhich  will  give  to  the  youthful  mind  an 
impidse,  that  will  urge  it  onward  farther  than,  in 
similar  circumstances,  it  has  ever  yet  gone. 

But  our  remarks  must  be  limited  to  a  single 
principle,  that  concentrated  and  persevering  efforts 
are  indispensable  to  great  attainments  and  great 
usefulness. 

By  concentrated  efforts,  we  mean,  that  we  must 
have  some  object  in  view  in  our  studies,  and  must 
strive,  with  steadiness  and  perseverance,  to  reach  it. 
We  speak  not  of  those  who  read  and  study,  without 
any  guide  but  caprice,  or  any  aim  but  amusement. 
Not  all  those  who  are  entitled  to  the  name  of 
students,  and  who  profess  to  have  placed  before 
tliem  some  point  which  they  propose  to  attain, 
possess  the  singleness  of  purpose,  and  the  reso- 
lute perseverance,  that  are  needful  to  success.  It 
is  one  thing  to  aim  at  a  certain  pouit,  and  to  advance 
towards  it,  yet  with  an  irregular,  slow,  circuitous 
progress,  like  the  traveller  who  loiters  along  the 
road,  to  pluck  the  flowers,  to  listen  to  the  songs 
of  the  birds,  and  to  gaze  at  the  scenery.  It  is  quite 
another  thing  to  press  onward  to  the  end,  with 
dkect,    steady,  undeviating  energy ^  undiverted  by 


HINTS    OX    LITERARY    HABITS, 


183 


the    attractive    sights    and    sounds    which    would 
pei*suade  him  to  pause. 

All  instructers  are  ^vitnesses  to  the  fact,  that  many 
pupils,  instead  of  a  dihgeut  prosecution  of  their 
studies,  are  satisfied  with  a  shght  attention  to  theb* 
lessons,  while  their  minds  are  surrendered  to 
indolence,  to  dissipation,  or  to  desuhorj^  reading. 
Many  a  yoimg  physician,  too,  has  been  drawn  away 
from  his  professional  studies  to  indulge  a  taste  for 
general  science.  IMany  a  student  of  the  law  is 
seduced  fi-om  Coke  and  Blackstone  by  the  charms 
of  poetry  or  of  the  Waverley  novels.  And  some 
divines,  it  may  be  feared,  permit  a  taste  for 
Uterature  or  the  arts  to  divert  their  minds  injuriously 
from  the  important  studies  connected  with  their 
sacred  ofiice.  AU  these  men  have  an  object  in 
view  which  they  would  not  consent  to  rehnquish,  but 
to  wliich  they  do  not  yield  their  concentrated  ef- 
forts. Their  movements  toAvards  that  object  are 
irregular.  Their  minds  are  divided  and  weakened 
by  the  frequent  intrusion  of  the  mterfering  taste. 
Their  time  and  energy  are  dissipated  in  pursuits 
foreign  to  the  principal  purpose. 

It  is  easy  to  foresee,  that  such  persons  cannot 
become  very  skilful  physicians,  or  eminent  lawyers, 
or  sound  divines.  Each  of  these  professions  opens 
a  wide  range  of  studies,  which  are  sufficient  to  task 
the  powers,  and  occupy  the  time  of  any  man. 
If  a  person  has  not  so  far  the  mastery  of  his 
own  mind  as  to  compel  it  to  a  steady  devotion  to 


184  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

his  appropriate  studies,  he  must  be  prepared  to  fore- 
go the  pleasures  and  the  advantages  which  would 
crown  such  efforts.  He  may  amuse  himself;  he 
may  become  familiar  with  general  hterature ;  he 
may  be  a  connoisseur  in  the  arts ;  he  may  acquire 
much  useful  and  graceful  learning:  but  the  prize 
of  enunence  and  extensive  usefulness  in  liis  o\vn 
profession  he  cannot  expect  to  win. 

The  nature  of  the  mind  requires  that  its  powers 
be  combined  and  concentrated,  for  the  purpose  of 
exerting  their  utmost  force ;  just  as  the  body  cannot 
act  with  its  full  energy,  if  its  several  limbs  are  employ- 
ed, at  the  same  time,  for  different  purposes.  The  eye 
of  the  mmd  camiot,  any  more  than  that  of  the  body, 
look  clearly  on  two  objects  at  once. 

We  do  not  mean,  however,  to  interdict  to  the 
student  every  study  not  immediately  bearing  on  his 
own  profession.  Every  well  educated  man  must 
acquire  a  general  knowledge  of  all  the  branches 
of  Uberal  learning.  It  is  the  aim  of  our  colleges  to 
give  him  this  knowledge.  They  lead  him  around 
the  wide  circle  of  the  sciences,  detaining  him  at 
each  a  sufficient  time  to  acquaint  him  with  its  general 
principles  and  its  most  important  facts,  so  that  he 
may  know  enough  of  mathematics,  astronomy  and 
natural  philosophy,  of  languages  and  rhetoric,  of 
history  and  statistics,  for  all  the  purposes  of  a  man 
who  is  not  to  make  these  particular  studies  his 
mam  pursuit  in  hfe.  Knowledge,  of  every  kind,  is 
valuable  to  him  who  knows  how  to  use  it,    The 


HINTS    ON    LITERARY   HABITS.  185 

most  learned  physiciau,  la^vyer,  or  divine,  is,  when 
other  things  are  equal,  the  most  useful  man.  Cicero 
requires  that  the  complete  orator  be  furnished  with 
every  kind  of  knowledge ;  and  his  own  example 
illustrates  his  precepts. 

The  mind,  moreover,  Uke  the  body,  requires 
relaxation,  and  may  renew  its  vigor,  not  by  inac- 
tion, but  by  vaiying  its  pursuits.  The  most  grave 
divine  may  usefully  refresh  himself,  at  times,  with  a 
problem  of  mathematics  or  a  volume  of  poetry. 

But  the  great  point  is,  to  consider  these  occasional 
Btudies  as  merely  relaxations,  while  the  main  pur- 
pose is  steadily  pursued ;  to  keep  every  thing  else 
subordinate,  while  the  chief  object  holds  its  place 
in  unrivalled  prominence.  The  difficulty  lies  in 
refusing  to  yield,  for  the  gratification  of  taste,  that 
time  and  attention  wliich  are  demanded  by  our 
professional  studies ;  to  give  a  resolute  denial  to 
every  temptation  which  would  persuade  us  to 
desert  the  path  of  our  duty,  and  walk  in  more  at- 
tractive fields.  The  scholar,  who  would  accomphsh 
any  thing  great  or  good,  must  resolve  that  he  will,  if 
possible,  be  master  of  that  profession  which  he  has 
chosen,  and  must  nerve  himself  for  the  self-denial 
which  may  be  needful  to  his  success. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  considerable  self-con- 
trol and  firmness  of  principle  are  necessary  to  keep 
tlie  mind  m  suljjection,  and  to  restrain  its  vagrant 
propensities.  But  it  can,  and  it  must,  be  done,  if  the 
student  would  be  eminent  and  useful.  And  he 
IG* 


186  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

must  adopt,  and  act  on,  a  few  principles  which  wo 
wiU  now  mention. 

The  idea  of  universal  scholarship  must  be  re- 
nounced at  the  outset.  No  man  can  learn  every 
thing.  The  shortness  of  life  forbids  the  attempt. 
The  nature  of  the  mind  itself  forbids  it.  God  has 
not  granted  to  any  one  mind  the  ability  to  ex- 
cel in  all  branches  of  learning,  as  he  has  not 
granted  to  any  one  climate  the  power  of  produc- 
ing all  the  fruits  of  the  earth.  Experience  has  es- 
tablished the  truth  of  the  axiom  of  Pope — 

"  One  science  only  can  one  genius  fit, 
So  vast  is  art;  so  narrow  human  wit." 

No  man,  on  the  rolls  of  the  learned,  has  been  able 
to  excel  in  more  than  one  or  two  departments  of 
intellectual  exertion.  The  men  who  aim  to  study 
every  thing,  resemble  those  universal  conquerors, 
who  have  overrun  many  countries,  but  could  acquire 
no  permanent  dominion.  No  one  man  could  be- 
come a  skilful  workman  in  all  the  mechanical  arts. 
It  is  surely  not  less  impossible,  that  any  one  mind 
should  compass  the  wliole  roimd  of  science.  And 
as  the  mechanic  will  be  most  successful  by  learning 
one  trade  well,  and  giving  to  this  his  faculties  and 
lime,  so  will  the  scholar  be  most  useful  to  his  fellow- 
men,  and  will  reap  the  most  profit  and  honor  to 
himself,  by  understanding  his  own  profession  well, 
rather  than  by  forming  a  slight  acquaintance  with  a 
multitude  of  things,  while  he  excels  in  nothing. 


HINTS    OX    LITERARY    HABITS.  187 

No  man  can  read  every  book  that  is  published. 
A  Ubrary  of  a  very  moderate  size  "would  furnish 
a  man  with  employment  for  liis  whole  life.  The 
Vatican  hbrarj",  at  Rome,  contains  500,000  volumes. 
The  age  of  ]Methuselah  would  be  too  short  to  read 
a  tithe  of  these  books. 

A  very  few  books,  in  fact,  can  be  read  by  any 
man ;  and  it  is  a  fortunate  circumstance,  that  com- 
paratively few  books  deserve  to  be  read  through. 
There  must  be  a  judicious  selection,  and  a  few  good 
books  must  be  read  and  digested  thoroughly.  An 
omnivorous  appetite  for  books,  which  unpels  a  man 
to  wish  to  read  every  thing,  is  a  fatal  barrier  to 
success  in  study. 

No  man,  indeed,  can  read  all  the  new  pubhcations 
which  the  press  multiphes  with  such  rapidity.  He 
must  resolutely  restrict  himself  to  those  which  are  the 
most  worthy  of  his  attention,  and  which  have  the 
most  du'ect  bearing  on  his  particular  studies.  Every 
literaiy  man  finds  liimself  daily  beset  by  temptations 
to  turn  aside  from  his  duties  and  regular  studies, 
to  regale  himself  with  the  attractive  hterature  of 
the  day.  But  he  must  resist  these  temptations,  and 
proceed  straight  onward  to  his  object,  or  his  time 
will  be  absorbed,  and  his  mind  distracted  and  weak- 
ened, by  trifles  as  volatile  as  the  leaves  of  the 
Sybil.  He  must  overcome  the  pride  which  shrinks 
from  the  confession,  that  he  is  ignorant  of  a  new 
and  fashionable  book. 


188  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

It  must  be  remembered,  too,  that  reading  is  not 
always  studying.  A  man  may  read  much  without 
becoming  wise;  and,  instead  of  adding  to  his  in- 
tellectual power,  he  may  diminish  it,  by  burthening 
his  mind  with  undigested  knowledge.  There  is  a 
wide  distinction  between  knowledge  and  wisdom. 
Cowper  has  happily  defined  this  distinction  in  a 
sententious  couplet : — 

"  Knowledge  resides  in  thoughts  of  other  men, 
Wisdom  in  minds  conversant  with  their  owti." 

Thinking  is  necessaiy  to  success  in  study.  To 
teach  the  mmd  to  think  correctly,  promptly  and 
powerfully,  is  the  main  object  of  education.  Learn- 
ing is  useful  only  as  it  furnishes  the  mind  "with  ma- 
terials for  thought.  A  mass  of  knowledge  may  be 
acquired,  but,  unless  the  mind  possesses  the  power 
of  arranging  and  applying  it  to  practical  use,  it  is 
of  no  more  utility  than  a  lamp  to  a  blind  man. 
That  system  of  education  fails  entirely  to  fulfil 
its  ofiice,  which  aims  to  crowd  the  mind  with 
knowledge,  rather  than  to  discipMne  it,  and  train  it  to 
tliink.  It  is  a  characteristic  of  modern  times,  that 
there  is  too  much  reading,  and  too  little  thinking. 
The  ancients,  perhaps,  owed  something  of  their  ex- 
cellence to  the  fact,  that  they  had  fewer  books,  and 
tlierefore  read  less,  and  reflected  more.  Newl:on 
ascribes  his  great  discoveries  to  the  steady  practice 
of  ^^ patient  thought" 


HINTS    ON    LITERARY  HABITS.  189 

We  might  insist,  under  this  head,  on  the  necessity 
of  a  due  attention  to  the  heahh  of  the  body,  and  to 
the  cultivation  of  the  social  affections.  Let  no  Hte- 
rary  man  suppose,  that  he  will  facihtate  his  progress 
by  denying  to  himself  that  bodily  exercise  which  ia 
needful  to  health.  The  early  graves  of  multitudes 
of  the  young  sous  of  science  are  melancholy  testi- 
monies of  the  danger  of  neglect  in  this  important 
point.  Without  health  of  body,  the  mind  cannot 
act  with  vigor ;  and  health  cannot  be  maintained 
without  regular  and  sufficient  exercise.  It  is  high 
time  that  something  was  done  to  prevent  the  waste 
of  life,  which  is  occasioned  by  the  want  of  suitable 
attention  to  the  health  of  the  body.  The  officers  of 
colleges  and  academies  ought  to  employ  their  author- 
ity, if  needful,  to  constram  their  pupils  to  a  due 
course  of  exercise. 

The  cultivation  of  the  social  affections  and  of  the 
manners  is  highly  important.  A  man  must  devote 
some  of  his  hours  to  society ;  and  if  that  society  be 
judiciously  selected,  and  his  time  properly  regulated, 
his  mind  %vill  return  to  its  studies  with  renewed 
vigor  and  elasticity ;  while  his  affections  will  be 
preserved  in  healthful  activity,  and  his  mamiers  will 
be  freed  from  that  awkward  constraint  which  is  so 
often  the  reproach  of  the  student.  A  knowledge 
of  men  cannot  be  wholly  acquired  from  books. 
Conversation  is  one  method  of  acquiring  knowl- 
edge, as  well  as  of  improving  the  mind.  Speech, 
says  Young, 


190  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

"Speech  ventilates  our  intellectual  fire, 
Speech  burnishes  our  mental  magazine ; 
Brightens  for  ornament;  and  whets  for  use." 

A  mail  must  keep  his  eye  fixed  on  his  main  ob- 
ject, and  make  every  thmg  that  he  reads,  or  hears, 
or  sees,  contribute  something  to  his  success.  Here 
will  be  a  nucleus,  around  wliich  he  may  dispose  his 
daily  acquisitions  of  knowledge.  Here  will  be  a 
principle  of  association,  which  "will  attract  to  itself, 
with  magnetic  power,  the  facts,  arguments  and 
sentiments,  which  are  met  with  in  the  course  of 
readmg  or  of  conversation.  For  the  want  of  such 
a  nucleus,  and  such  a  principle  of  association,  much 
of  what  we  learn  is  lost.  It  lies  loose  in  the  mind, 
and,  finding  nothing  to  which  it  may  attach  itself,  it 
escapes,  and  is  forgotten.  We  need  that  fixed  and 
concentrated  aim,  which  would,  Avith  a  happy  alche- 
my, convert  the  most  common  thmgs  into  precious 
materials  for  thought.  Virgil  said,  that  lie  could 
find  pearls  in  stercore  Ennii.  Milton  affirmed,  that 
he  found  benefit  in  reading  the  wild  romances  of 
chivalry.  Pope  levied  contributions  for  his  poetic 
treasures  from  every  thing  which  he  heard,  or  read, 
or  saw. 

But,  besides  this  fixed  aim,  there  must  be  perse- 
verance in  the  pursuit  of  it.  IMany  scholars 
commence  their  course  with  ardor,  but,  after  a  time, 
they  become  weary  from  familiarity ;  or  some  new 
project  diverts  their  minds ;  or  they  fancy  that  they 
have  finished  their  education^  and  that  further  study 


HINTS    ON    LITERARY    HABITS.  191 

is  needless.  A  man  of  this  temperament  is  not  of 
that  chosen  few  whom  future  times  will  remember. 
A  true  scholar  never  speaks  ofjinishing  his  studies, 
for  he  must  be  a  student  while  he  lives.  His  is  that 
classic  motto,  which  Dr.  Johnson  has  translated  in 
one  of  liis  poems  : — 

"■  Think  notliing  gained,  he  cries,  while  aught  remains/' 

He  remembers  the  great  sons  of  fame.  The  labo- 
rious dihgence  of  Demosthenes  to  overcome  obsta- 
cles, and  to  make  himself  an  accomplislied  orator, 
was  as  wonderful  as  his  success.  Cicero  followed 
the  same  path,  and  wore  the  same  crown.  His  aim 
from  his  youth  was  to  be  an  orator,  and  his  eye  was 
fixed  on  that  glorious  prize  with  a  gaze  which 
never  faltered.  Pope's  ambition,  from  his  cradle, 
was  to  be  a  poet;  and  his  mind  steadily  flowed 
in  this  channel  till  poetiy  became  his  mother 
tongue.  Howard  is  well  celebrated  by  Burke  and 
by  Foster,  as  an  astonishing  example  of  perseverance, 
and  of  the  mastery  which  one  object  may  gam  over 
the  mind.  It  is  said  of  him,  that  in  his  circumnavi- 
gation of  charity,  he  visited  Rome,  but  could  not 
spare  time,  from  his  ministry  of  benevolence,  to 
examine  the  rums  and  wonders  of  the  eternal  city. 

These  liints  will,  it  is  hoped,  be  thought  worthy 
of  attention  by  every  reader.  In  whatever  duties 
men  are  engaged,  they  cannot  hope  for  the  highest 
usefuhiess,  and  tlie  most  complete  success,  without  a 
fixed  purpose,  and  firm  constancy. 


192  THE    CHRISTIAN   OFFERING. 

There  are  many  powerful  motives,  which  ought 
to  be  ever  present  to  our  minds,  and  which 
may  assist  to  arm  us  with  the  needful  self-de- 
nial. 

One  motive  is,  that  a  very  common  intellect  may 
accomplish  more,  by  concentrated  and  persevering 
efforts,  than  a  mind  of  far  higher  powers,  which  is 
irregular  in  its  habits. 

Our  duty  to  our  Creator  demands  of  us  the  wisest 
and  most  energetic  exertion  of  our  faculties.  He 
who  has  bestowed  them,  and  has  given  us  oppor- 
tunities to  cultivate  and  use  them,  requires,  that 
they  be  not  wasted  in  indolence,  nor  dissipated  by 
irresolute  and  desultory  efforts,  and  much  less 
perverted  to  sinful  and  selfish  ends.  He  has  taught 
us  the  great  moral  lesson,  that  "  one  thing  is  need- 
ful," and  has  commanded  us  to  do  with  our  might 
whatever  our  hands  find  to  do.  He  will  exact  of 
us  an  account  of  all  our  conduct,  with  a  scrutiny 
which  we  cannot  elude,  and  which  no  thoughtful 
man  can  anticipate  without  anxiety. 

The  love  of  doing  good  to  our  fellow  men  is  a 
noble  motive  to  study  and  exertion.  He  who  has 
never  felt  the  desire  to  benefit  mankind  by  his 
talents,  his  learning,  his  personal  ser\dces,  or  his 
wealth,  is  a  stranger  to  one  of  the  purest  sources  of 
enjoyment.  He  may  abandon  the  hope  of  honorable 
fame,  for  he  lacks  the  generous  benevolence,  the 
expansive  sympathies,  the  self-denial,  and  the  ele- 
vated aim,  without  which  no  man  is  capable  of  great 


HINTS    ON    LITERARY    HABITS.  193 

and  worthy  actions.  He  who  considers  how  wide 
is  the  scope  for  his  benevolence — how  much  igno- 
rance there  is  to  be  mstructed — how  many  errors  to 
be  corrected — how  many  sorrows  to  be  soothed — 
how  much  sickness,  poverty  and  suffering,  which 
call  for  the  feeling  heart  and  the  open  hand — ought 
not  to  need  any  other  incentive  to  cultivate  his 
mind  to  the  highest  point,  and  to  press  forward  to 
tlie  mark  set  before  him  with  all  his  might. 

And  the  scholar  should  reflect  on  the  character 
of  our  age  and  countiy.  The  time  is  come  when 
men  cannot  be  governed  by  the  bayonet.  IMind 
must  be  controlled  by  mind.  Pubhc  opinion  is  now 
the  ruler  in  civilized  countries.  What  a  noble  field 
is  here  opened  for  the  exercise  of  intellectual  power ! 
Homer  celebrates  his  heroes,  for  their  exploits  in 
dealing  tremendous  blows,  and  hurhng  stones  of 
prodigious  weight.  Such,  in  great  part,  has  been 
die  fame  of  men  in  former  times.  But  bone  and 
muscle  are  no  longer  to  be  the  arbiters  of  nations. 
The  clear  thinker,  the  strong  and  pure  writer,  the 
powerful  orator,  are  henceforth  to  move  and  rule 
men.  The  hall  of  legislation,  the  bar  and  the  pulpit, 
and  not  the  battle-field,  are  the  places  where  the 
weal  or  the  wo  of  men  is  to  be  decided. 

Our  own  free  coimtiy  is  the  happy  scene  where 
the  mind  may  win  the  purest  triumphs,  and  where  it 
is  allured  to  high  efforts  by  the  most  powerful 
incitements.  Here  there  is  nothing  to  obstruct  the 
advance  of  talent,  whether  it  is  nurtured  in  the 
17 


194  THE    CIIllISTIAN    OFFERING. 

dwellings  of  the  rich,  hke  the  delicate  exotic,  by  the 
artificial  culture  of  wealth,  or  springs  up  from  the 
cottages  of  the  poor,  by  its  own  inherent  energy, 
like  the  hardy  oak  of  our  mountains.  Here  learning, 
power  and  wealth  are  placed,  like  the  garlands  at 
the  Olympic  games,  as  prizes,  open  to  every  com- 
petitor. Here  Freedom  mspu-es  her  orator  with 
noble  thoughts  and  generous  emotions,  and  bids 
him  emulate  the  glorious  eloquence  of  ancient  times. 
Here,  too.  Religion,  unfettered  by  entangling  and 
corrupting  alhances  with  human  institutions,  sheds 
her  selectest  influences  on  her  advocates,  and  gives 
to  piety,  learning  and  eloquence,  the  purest,  the  most 
secm'e  and  the  most  delightful  dominion  which  man 
can  exercise  over  his  fellow  man — the  sway  of  be- 
nevolent and  cultivated  minds  over  ^vi]ling  hearts, 
instructed,  consoled  and  guided  by  their  ministr^^ 

Let,  then,  the  scholars  of  our  country  attempt  great 
tilings,  and  expect  great  thmgs.  Richer  rewards 
await  them,  than  ever  dazzled  the  eyes  and  allured 
the  hopes  of  worldly  ambition. 

But  the  immortality  of  the  mind  supplies  a  motive 
of  indescribable  solemnity  and  force.  The  mind  is 
but  another  name  for  the  intellectual  attributes  of 
tlie  soul.  The  mind  thmks  and  acts  for  eternity. 
All  its  habits  and  acquirements  contribute  to  prepare 
it  for  the  everlasting  scenes,  either  of  felicity  or  wo, 
to  which  it  will  soon  be  introducetl.  The  gospel, 
which  brings  life  and  immortality  to  light,  has  taught 
us,  diat  "  whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also 


HINTS    OX    LITERARY    HABITS.  195 

reap."  If  the  soul  pervert  its  affections  to  the  love  of 
sin,  and  waste  its  mental  faculties  in  the  service  of  er- 
ror, or  in  frivolous  pursuits,  it  will  reap  a  harvest  of  in- 
terminable wretchedness.  What  can  rouse  the  mind 
to  a  resolute  and  steady  devotion  of  its  powers  to  the 
duties  which  God  has  "prescribed,  and  to  a  diligent 
use  of  all  the  means  of  self-improvement,  if  it  be 
not  the  solenm  truth,  that  its  eternal  destiny  depends 
on  the  character  which  is  acquired  in  this  Ufe  ;  that 
the  muid  vnW  continue  to  think  and  to  act  forever ; 
and  that  eveiy  right  habit,  and  eveiy  accession  of 
true  msdom  and  valuable  knowledge,  will  unques- 
tionably tend  to  enhance  its  happiness  in  the  future 
world  ?  What  else  should  be  needed,  to  urge  men 
to  an  immediate  submission  to  the  authority  of  the 
gospel ;  and,  by  patient  continuance  in  well  doing, 
to  seek  for  glory,  honor  and  immortahtj"  ? 


HOME. 


BY    WILLIAM    R.    WILLIAMS,    ESQ. 


When  reeled,  at  dead  of  night,  the  foundering  bark, 
And  through  the  thick,  dark  air,  above  the  storm 
And  its  fierce  bowlings,  rose  the  shriek  of  death, 
The  wild,  brief  prayer,  and  Horror's  drowning  cry, — 
What  earthward  thought,  deem  ye,  clung  latest  round 
Each  throbbing  heart,  now  hushed  in  Ocean's  depths .'' 
The  thought  of  home, — effaces  round  its  hearth, 
That  smiled,  while  voices  sweet  the  absent  named, 
And  counted  o'er  the  days  that  yet  must  pass 
Ere  he  should  come, — and  he  was  not  to  come  ! 
And,  as  he  sunk,  Home's  voice  rung  in  his  ears. 

In  years  long  gone,  when  England's  marshaled  hosts 
Were  foiled  by  peasant  bands,  and  richest  blood. 
Like  water,  ran  along  the  grassy  slopes 
Of  our  green  hills, — what  nerved  the  death-fraught  arm, 
And  winged  with  fire  the  glance  of  warriors  rude. 
That  erst  had  tilled  the  fields  where  now  they  fought  ? 
Before  each  eye,  in  all  its  beauty,  rose 
The  quiet  home  of  youth,  the  sheltered  cot : 
Each  well  known  tree,  that  o'er  the  parent  roof, 


HOME. 


197 


Its  shadow  threw,  in  truest  vision  came. 

They  thought  of  home,  and  smote  the  spoiler  down  j 

They  thought  of  home,  and  were  invincible. 

To  nobler  strife  Home  has  the  watchword  been  : 
The  patriot's  pride,  it  was  the  Christian's  test. 
Oh  !  who  shall  tell  the  martyr's  silent  pangs, 
Wliile,  as  he  paced,  with  fettered  step,  and  slow, 
His  dungeon  floor,  and  night,  with  chiUing  mists, 
Stole  through  the  rust-worn  bars,  the  quiet  hours 
Came  o'er  his  mind,  .when  he  was  wont  to  sit 
And  trim  his  cottage  fire,  his  toils  recount, 
And  in  his  children's  eyes  read  love  and  peace  1 
Awhile  might  home  from  heaven  his  soul  seduce, 
And  wring,  with  treacherous  skill,  a  bleeding  heart. 

A  few  brief  words  were  all ;    his  chains  would  part, 

His  prison  ope,  and  he  again  was  free. 

And  'neath  that  happy  roof  should  stand  again. 

'Twas  evil's  strongest  snare  : — from  off  his  soul 

He  shook  the  mighty  spell,  wrenched  loose  his  heart 

From  life  and  its  strong  bonds,  then  looked  for  home 

In  higher  worlds.     The  truth  had  made  him  free, 

Free  in  his  soul,  a  denizen  of  heaven; 

And  to  the  truth  he  set  the  seal  of  death. 

Yet  at  the  stake  his  spirit  homeward  glanced ; 

For  home's  loved  inmates  rose  his  latest  prayers  ; 

His  last,  his  only  tears,  for  them  fell  fast. 

Abode  of  peace,  shrine  of  life's  charities  ! 
Within  thy  narrow  walls  the  purest  joys. 
Of  earliest  growth  and  longest  date,  are  found. 
17* 


198  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Tlieie  Childhood  weaves  his  dreams  of  rainbow  hues, 

And  infant  Genius  imps  his  eagle  wing ; 

To  guard  thy  hearth  War  lifts  his  trumpet  voice, 

And  Law  her  awful  sword,  e'er  bright,  displays ; 

To  deck  thee  roams  the  pilgrim  o'er  the  earth, 

The  victor  hither  brings  his  spoils,  and  Age, 

To  thee  returning,  asks  at  home  to  die. 

Yet  build  thy  bower  on  Empire's  giddiest  height; 
Be  it  some  ancient  throne,  with  weaponed  men 
And  gorgeous  pomp  begirt,  where  frowning  towers 
Scowl  o'er  a  prostrate  land;  or  wend  thy  way 
To  some  lone  cot,  by  sheltering  pines  o'ertopped. 
Far  from  the  hum  of  towns,  where  Silence  dwells, 
And  Nature,  like  a  slumbering  infant,  smiles, — 
Thy  hopes  shall  fail  thee.     Like  the  desert  blast. 
That  smites,  unheard,  the  caravans  of  Ind, 
Through  thy  long  arches,  bright  with  fretted  gold, 
And  through  the  forest's  verdant  fence,  steals  Death, 
Sweeps  thee  away,  and  bids  the  stranger  tread 
The  palace  or  the  hut  that  once  was  thine. 

Oh !  there  are  walls  where  Death  can  never  come ; 
And  Sorrow  never  stole,  with  blighting  tread. 
Through  those  bright  gates.     There  be  thy  chosen  rest; 
Fix  there  thine  eager  eye,  and  thither  turn 
Thine  earnest  step ;  and,  as  thy  way  is  won, 
Bless  thou  the  Friend  who  reared  those  mansions  bright 
On  his  own  tomb.     It  was  the  only  home 
He  found  on  earth.     Fear  not  the  awful  perch, 
For  all  the  path  is  tracked  with  his  pure  blood. 


HOME.  199 

When  he  the  sceptre  broke  of  raging  Death, 
'Twas  He  that  bade  me  ask  thee  to  His  home 
Of  light,  of  love,  of  ceaseless  melody. 
To  Him  turn,  then,  thine  eye,  and  bless  his  name , 
And  now,  my  friend,  e'en  now,  repent  and  live. 


FOSTER'S  LECTURE. 


NOTES  OF  A  LECTURE  BY  THE  REV.  JOHN  FOSTER, 

AUTHOR    OF    ESSAYS    ON    DECISION   OF    CHARACTER,    &C. 

"  We  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf." 

Isaiah  xliv.  6. 

Our  lives  have  been  prolonged  to  witness  once 
more,  within  the  last  few  weeks,  the  wide  process  of 
decay  over  the  field  of  nature :  the  infinite  masses 
of  fohage  which  unfolded  so  beautifully  in  vegetable 
life  in  the  spring,  and  have  adorned  our  landscape 
during  the  summer,  have  faded,  fallen,  and  perished. 
We  have  beheld  the  grace  of  the  fashion  of  them 
disclosed,  continuing  awhile  bright  in  the  sunshine, 
and  gone  forever.  Now  our  text,  with  many  otlier 
passages  of  the  same  character,  admonishes  us  not 
to  see  the  very  leaves  fade  without  being  reminded 
that  something  else  is  also  fading.  We  should  do 
well  to  fix  our  attention  awhile  on  this  very  per- 
nicious fact,  of  our  inaptitude  to  feel  and  reflect  that 
our  moral  existence  is  fading,  and  then  to  note  and 


.ID 


'i  ■ 

Auth-OT  oJf  the  Assays  &c. 


FOSTER'S    LECTURE.  201 

urge  a  few  of  those  monitoiy  circumstances  which 
verify  this  our  declimiig  state. 

Let  us  look  a  httle  at  the  habit  of  our  feehng  in 
regard  to  this  matter.  And,  first,  we  are  veiy  unapt 
to  recognise  the  common  lot  and  destiny  of  all 
human  hfe — that  it  is  to  fade,  and  is  fading.  The 
vast  world  of  the  departed  is  out  of  our  sight — even 
what  was  the  material  and  the  visible  part.  What  is 
constantly  in  our  sight  is  the  ivorld  of  the  living ;  and 
we  are  unapt  to  think  of  them  as  all  appointed  not 
to  ]je  hving ;  and,  in  our  o'v\ti  case,  while  we  see  the 
countless  population  in  all  the  passions  and  actions 
of  life,  &c.  &c.,  it  is  but  now  and  then,  perhaps 
rather  unfrequently,  that  the  reflection,  like  a  sol- 
emn shade,  comes  over  us — These  are  all  hastening 
out  of  sight,  tending  to  dissolution  and  dust.  Such 
a  Mvinff  scene  our  ancestors  beheld ;  but  where  are 
now  both  those  they  looked  on  and  themselves? 
3Ian  as  he  is  fills  the  attention,  and  precludes  a 
thought  of  man  as  he  is  appointed,  and  going  to  he ; 
and  we  may  note  a  circiunstance  which  aids  the 
deception,  viz.  that  the  most  decayed  and  faded 
portion  of  the  Uving  world  is  much  less  in  sight  than 
the  fresh  and  vigorous.  Think  how  many  infirm, 
Bick,  debilitated,  languishmg,  and  almost  dying 
persons  there  are,  that  are  rarely  or  never  out  in 
public  view ;  not  met  in  our  streets,  roads,  places  of 
resort ;  not  in  our  rehgious  assemblies ;  and  then  out 
of  sight  out  of  mind  in  a  great  degi-ee.  Thus  we 
look  at  the  livuig  world,  so  as  not  to  read  the  des- 


202  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERIXG. 

tiny  written  on  every  forehead,  and,  in  this  thought- 
lessness, are  the  more  apt  to  forget  our  own.  But, 
again,  we  are  very  prone  to  forget  our  own  transi- 
tory being,  even  while  we  do  recognise  the  general 
appointment  to  fade  and  vanish.  I  am  not  hope- 
lessly sick ;  I  am  not  sinldng  in  feebleness ;  I  am 
not  withering  within  an  inch  of  the  dust.  Life,  in 
the  case  of  a  being  that  should  be  certainly  im- 
mortal, might  be  considered  as  an  absolute  posses- 
sion ;  but,  with  us,  life  is  an  expenditure.  We  have 
it  as  but  continually  losing  it.  We  have  no  use  of  it 
but  as  it  is  continually  wasting.  Suppose  a  man 
confined  in  some  fortress,  under  the  doom  to  stay 
there  till  his  death,  and  suppose  there  is  there  for  his 
use  a  dark  reservoir  of  water,  to  which  it  is  certain 
none  can  ever  be  added.  He  knows,  suppose,  that 
the  quantity  is  not  very  great ;  he  cannot  penetrate 
to  ascertain  how  much,  but  it  may  be  but  veiy  little. 
He  has  drawn  from  it,  by  means  of  a  fountain, 
a  great  while  already,  and  draws  from  it  every  day  ; 
but  hoAV  would  he  feel,  each  time  of  drawing,  and 
each  time  of  thinking  of  it  ?  Not  as  if  he  had  a 
perennial  spring  to  go  to  ;  not,  "  I  have  a  reservoir ;  I 
may  be  at  my  ease."  No  ;  but  "  I  had  water  yester- 
day, I  have  water  to-day  ;  but  my  having  had  it, 
and  my  having  it  to-day,  is  the  veiy  cause  that  I 
shall  not  have  it  on  some  day  that  is  approaching ; 
and,  at  the  same  time,  I  am  compelled  to  this  fatal 
expenditure."  So  of  our  mortal,  transient  life.  With 
many,  the  plahi  testimony  of  time  comes  home  with 


FOSTER'S    LECTURE.  203 

far  too  little  force.  Some  manifest  a  solicitous  reluc- 
tance to  be  considered  and  classed  with  the  elderly 
and  old,  discovering,  perhaps,  in  spite  of  some  effort, 
a  sensation  of  chagrin  at  hearing  expressions  which, 
directly  or  by  implication,  assign  them  to  the  aged 
class — prematurely  assign  them,  they  think,  or  would 
have  it  thought ;  so  that  it  becomes  a  point  of  com- 
plaisance to  beware  using  any  such  expressions  in 
their  presence.  Some  such  persons  have  recourse 
to  expedients,  undignified,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
unavailing,  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  their  former 
gi'ound — as  an  ill-judged  labor  of  personal  decoration 
— a  style  of  dress  and  ornament  perhaps  little  worthy 
of  intelligence  and  piety  at  any  age  ;  but  m  every 
case  inappropriate  to  any  but  the  more  lightsome 
form  and  unfaded  countenance — a  forced,  overacted 
vivacity — even  attempted  rivalry  with,  not  the  gayety 
only,  but  the  very  levity  of  youth,  as  if  they  positively 
would  not  be  old  enough  yet  to  be  grave  on  any 
subject — a  resolute  addiction  to  amusements  and 
what  is  called  company.  Such  are  some  of  the 
characteristics  of  man's  insensibility  to  the  solemn 
fact,  that  we  all  do  fade  as  the  leaf.  Now,  this  in- 
sensibility is  partly  wilful ;  for  it  is  partly  owing  to 
our  indulging  a  reluctance  to  perceive  and  think  of 
the  signs  and  proofs  which  remind  us  of  the  fact  that 
we  are  fading.  Therefore  it  is  highly  proper  there 
sliould  be  a  solemn  remonstrance  against  this  per- 
verse indisposition,  and  an  endeavor  to  press  on  the 
attention  those  circumstances  and  reflections  wliich 


204  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

are  adapted  to  remind  us  of  the  fading,  vanishing 
condition  of  our  mortal  existence.  They  are  a 
mighty  number.  If  the  soul  could  expand  itself, 
and  with  a  lively  sensibihty  to  receive  upon  it  the 
significance,  the  glancing  intimation,  the  whisperhig 
monition,  of  all  things  that  are  adapted  to  remind  it 
of  this  fact,  what  a  host  of  assailing  ideas  would 
strike  it!  Then  we  should  hardly  see  a  shadow 
pass,  or  a  vapor  rise,  or  a  flower  fade,  or  a  leaf  fall, 
still  less  a  human  visage  withered  in  age,  but  we 
should  have  a  thought  of  the  transient  continuance 
of  our  hfe.  We  can  only  note  a  few  of  the  things 
that  suggest  this  instruction.  It  would  not  be  foreign 
to  the  purpose  to  reflect  how  many  successive  gen- 
erations of  men  have  faded  and  vanished  since  the 
text  itself  was  written  ;  as  many,  at  the  average  du- 
ration, as  there  have  been  falls  of  the  leaf  since  the 
first  autunm  which  the  oldest  person  among  us  can 
remember.  Let  such  a  person  glance  a  tliought 
back  on  the  long  repetition  of  this  great  change  over 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  think,  think  of  man !  im- 
agine some  great  spirit  to  have  been  an  observer  of 
the  human  race  through  all  this  series  of  ages! 
Within  his  view,  the  entire  multitude  has  gone  once, 
and  once  again,  and  still  again.  To  our  view,  how- 
ever, there  is  a  grand  circumstance  of  deception 
with  respect  to  the  removal  and  renewal  of  the  race. 
Human  beings  are  continually  going  and  coming, 
so  that,  tliougli  all  die,  man,  in  his  vast  assemblage, 
is  always  hero.     The  order  of  the  world  is,  that  men 


FOSTER'S    LECTURE.  205 

be  withdrawn  one  by  one, — one  here  and  one  there, — 
leaving  the  mighty  mass,  to  general  appearance,  still 
entire  (except  in  the  case  of  vast  and  desolating 
calamities) ;  and  thus  we  see  nothing  parallel  to  the 
general  autumnal  fading  of  the  leaf; — more  like  the 
evergreens  which  lose  their  leaves  by  individuals, 
and  still  maintaiu  their  hving  foliage.  To  the 
thoughtless  spectator,  the  human  race  is  presented 
under  such  a  fallacious  appearance  as  if  it  always 
lived.  But  a  man  should  have  serious  consideration 
enough  to  look  througli  this  deception.  A  veiy  old 
man  has  seen  the  main  substance  of  two  generations 
vanish.  Another  warning  suggestion  arises:  We 
allow  oiu^elves  to  miscalculate  the  appropriate 
season  for  fadmg.  Our  imagination  places  it  in  old 
age  most  delusively.  The  period  to  be  accounted, 
in  a  general,  collective  calculation,  as  the  proper  teiTn 
of  mortahty,  cannot  rightly  be  placed  beyond  such  a 
stage  in  hfe  as  a  large  proportion  of  men  do  attain, 
but  not  exceed.  The  comparison  of  the  leaves  here 
again  fails;  the  main  mass  of  the  foliage  of  the  forest 
does  continue  on  to  the  late  period  which  none  of  it 
can  survive.  Not  so  in  the  case  of  human  beings. 
The  great  majority  of  them  are  not  appointed  to 
reach  what  we  are  accustomed  to  regard  as  the  late 
autmnn  of  life  ;  and  therefore  young  persons  are  to 
be  earnestly  warned  against  calculating  on  that  as 
even  a  probabihty.  On  the  field  of  Hfe  there  are  a 
tliousand  things  in  operation  to  anticipate  time. 
18 


206  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

Then  let  not  young  persons  amuse  themselves  whh 
flattering  lies,  and  say,  "  We  may  live,  probably,  so 
far  as  to  the  term  of  eighty,"     But  since  some  of 
them  may  perhaps  truly  say,  "We  do  not  much 
think  about  such  calculations  in  any  way;  it  is 
enough  for  the  present  that  we  are  youthful  and 
blooming ;  there  is  no  fading  or  signs  of  its  approach  ;" 
well,  so  have  many  felt,  and  perhaps  said,  in  answer 
to   grave  admonitions,  who,  before  the  recent  fall 
of  the  leaf,  have  withered  and  died ;  and  so,  before 
the  fading  of  next  autmnn,  will  many  more,  now  gay 
and  blooming.     But,  without  insisting  upon  these 
threatening  possibihties  of  premature  decline,  to  a 
reflecting  mind    the    constant,   inevitable   progress 
toward  fading  would  appear  very  much  related  to  it ; 
there  is  daily  less  and  less  of  that  intermediate  space 
remaining,  which  is  all  there  can  be  between  us  and 
death.     One  has  sometimes  looked  upon  the  flowers 
of  the  meadow  which  the  mower's  scythe  was  to 
invade  the  next  day  ;  perfect  life  and  beauty,  as  yet ; 
but  to  the  mind  they  have  seemed  already  fading, 
thi-ough  the  anticipation.     If  we  turn  to  those  who 
ai-e  a  good  way,  or  quite  far  advanced  in  life,  they 
can  tell  how  rapidly  that  vernal  season  passed  away ; 
how  much  it  looks,  in  the  review,  like  an  absolute 
preternatural  fleetness  of  time.     As  to  their  now  more 
advanced  period,  there  are  many  palpable  intimations 
in  their  experience  to  remind  them  of  the  truth  of 
the  text.     Even  those  who  are  ranked  as  middle- 


FOSTER'S    LECTURE.  ^07 

aged  have  much  that  speaks  to  them  in  a  serious, 
waruiiig  voice.  They  are,  most  of  them,  sensible, 
by  their  consciousness,  as  well  as  by  the  record  of 
years,  that  one  gi*and  period  of  their  terrestrial  sea- 
son has  gone  by.  Let  them  think  on  what  they  feel 
to  be  gone — freshness  of  life — ^vernal  prime — over- 
flowing spirits — elastic,  bounding  vigor — insuppres- 
sible  activity — quick,  ever-vai-j  hig  emotion — delight- 
ful unfolding  of  the  faculties — ^the  sense  of  more  and 
more  power,  both  of  body  and  spirit — the  prospect  as 
if  hfe  was  entire  before  them — and  all  overspread 
with  brightness  and  fair  colors  !  This  is  gone !  and 
this  change  is  not  a  httle  towards  fading.  Those 
poignantly  feel  it  to  be  so,  who  look  back  with 
sadness  or  vain  fretfulness  to  think  it  cannot  be 
recalled.  But  there  are  still  more  decided  indications 
of  decay.  Some,  indeed,  as  we  observed,  remain 
considerably  stationary ;  but,  as  to  the  majority,  there 
are  circumstances  that  will  not  let  them  forget 
whereabouts  they  are  in  life :  feelings  of  positive 
infiraiity — diminished  power  of  exertion — gray  haii-s 
— failure  of  sight — besetting  pains — apprehensive 
caution  against  hami  and  inconvenience,  often  what 
are  called  nei-vous  affections — slight  injiaies  to  the 
body  far  less  easily  repaired ; — all  this  is  a  great 
progress  in  the  fading,  and  the  appearance  partakes 
of  and  indicates  the  decline,  not  so  perceptible  to 
the  person  himself,  or  to  constant  associates,  but 
strikingly  apparent  to  acquaintances,  who  see   one 


208  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

another  after  a  long  absence.  From  this  stage  there 
is  a  very  rapid  descent  toward  complete  old  age, 
with  its  accumulated  privations  and  oppressions — 
great  general  prostration  of  strength,  often  of  settled 
disorders,  operating  with  habitual  gi'ievance — loss  of 
memory — furrows  marking  the  countenance — great 
suffering  by  little  inconveniences — confinement,  in  a 
great  measure,  to  a  spot — a  strange  and  mighty  dis- 
eeverment,  as  it  were,  from  the  man's  own  early 
youthful  self.  In  some  instances,  there  is  a  last 
decline  mto  an  utterly  withered  state  of  existence — 
imbecility  wholly  of  body  and  mind.  The  final 
point  is  that  of  the  fallen  leaves — to  be  reduced  to 
dust — and  thus,  in  so  many  ways,  is  the  text  verified. 
It  will  perhaps  be  said,  this  is  a  most  gloomy  view  of 
human  hfe :  why  exhibit  it  at  such  width,  and  darken 
it  with  so  many  aggravations  of  shade  ?  as  if  to 
cloud  the  little  sunshme  that  glhmners  on  our  lot. 
We  answer.  Nothing  worth  is  that  sunshine  that  wiU 
not  pierce  radiantly  through  this  cloud.  No  compla- 
cency, no  cheerfulness,  no  delight,  is  worth  havmg 
that  cannot  be  enjoyed  together  with  the  contempla- 
tion of  this  view  of  our  mortal  condition.  Such  an 
exliibition — is  it  truth  ?  is  it  fact  ?  and  is  it  truth  and 
fact  bearing  irresistibly  on  our  own  concern  ?  Then 
the  endeavor  to  be  hapjiy  by  escaping  from  the  view 
and  thought  of  it,  would  be  a  thing  incomparably 
more  gloomy  to  behold  than  all  that  this  exhibition 
presents ;  because  that  would  betray  the  want,  the 


FOSTER'S    LECTURE.  209 

neglect,  the  rejection,  of  the  grand  source  against 
tlie  gloom  of  our  mortal  state  and  destiny.  To  an 
enhghtened  beholder  of  mankind,  it  is  not  their  being 
all  under  the  doom  to  fade,  and  be  dissolved,  and 
vanish  ; — it  is  not  that  tliat  strikes  him  as  the  deepest 
gloom  of  the  scene  ;  no,  but  their  being  thoughtless 
of  their  condition ;  their  not  seeking  the  true  and 
all-powerful  consolation  under  it ;  their  not  earnestly 
looking  and  aimuig  toward  that  glorious  state,  into 
which  they  may  emerge  from  this  fading  and  per- 
ishing existence.  The  melancholy  thing  by  empha- 
sis is,  that  bemgs  under  such  a  doom  should  disregard 
the  grand  countervailing  economy  of  the  divine 
beneficence,  in  which  hfe  and  immortality  are 
brought  to  hght ;  in  which  the  Lord  of  hfe  has  lum- 
self  submitted  to  the  lot  of  mortals,  in  order  to 
redeem  them  to  the  prospect  of  another  life,  where 
there  shall  be  no  fading,  decline,  nor  dissolution. 
Let  us  not,  then,  absurdly  turn  from  the  view  because 
it  is  gi-ave  and  gloomy,  but  dwell  upon  it  often  and 
intently,  for  the  great  purpose  of  exciting  our  spuits 
to  a  victoiy  over  the  vanity'  of  our  present  condition, 
to  gain  from  it,  through  the  aid  of  the  Divine  Spirit, 
a  mighty  impulse  toward  a  state  of  ever-living,  ever- 
blooming  existence  beyond  the  sky.  A  man  who 
feels  this,  would  accept  no  substitute  consolation 
against  the  gloomy  character  of  this  mortal  life — not 
the  highest  health — not  the  most  exuberant  spirits, 
nor  early  youth  itself,  if  it  were  possible  for  tlmt  to 
18* 


210  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

be  renewed.  "  No,  far  rather  let  me  fade,  let  me 
languish,  let  me  feci  that  mortality  is  upon  me,  and 
that  the  terrestrial  scene  is  darkening  around  me, 
but  with  this  inspiration  of  faith  and  hope — this 
rising  energy,  which  is  already  carrying  me  out  of 
an  existence,  which  is  all  frailty,  into  one  of  vigor, 
and  power,  and  pei-petuity." 


THE    INVALID. 


BY   MISS    ISABEL    ANN   DRTSDALE. 


A  FEW  months  since,  I  was  constrained,  by 
declining  health,  to  seek  a  southern  clunate.  Mine 
was  that  hopeless  disease  which  sometimes  sets  on 
whole  families  the  seal  of  early  death.  The  grave- 
weed  waved  over  those  whose  kindred  hands  had 
been  linked  with  mine  in  childhood  and  in  youth. 
I  had  seen  them  gradually  fading  away  from  the 
paths  of  hfe,  cut  do^vn,  one  after  another,  like  the 
frail  "  flower  of  the  grass ;"  and  now  the  same 
deadly  shaft  was  ranklmg  in  my  "s-itals.  /  was  now 
''•tlie  stiicken  deer,"  and  with  mournful  feeling  I 
marked  the  silent  but  sure  work  of  decay — ^the  eb- 
bing strength,  the  faihng  spirits — the  gentle  weaning 
away  fi*om  all  the  strong  dehghts  and  enjoyments  of 
life — the  gradual  going  down  into  the  grave ! — I  had 
no  hope  of  life  ;  I  saw  before  me  the  print  of  kindred 
feet  marking  my  way  to  the  tomb,  and  I  knew  that 
I  must  die.  Still  I  longed  for  reUef,  and,  like  the 
melancholy  poet,  I  was  disposed  to  invoke  my  de- 
stroyer, and  say, 


^12  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

"  Gently,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head, 
Consumption,  lay  thy  hantl !     Let  me  decay, 
Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away, 

And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead." 

I  longed  for  the  bright  suns  and  mild  temperature  of 
the  south,  and  shrunk  from  the  bleak  l)lasts  of  my 
native  hills,  which  seemed  to  kindle  the  consummg 
fever  wliich  raged  in  my  system.  A  small  seaport, 
in  one  of  the  Southern  States,  was  recommended  to 
me  as  a  retired  and  eligible  situation  for  an  invalid  ; 
and  thither  I  went,  leaving,  for  a  land  of  strangers, 
that  home  over  which  the  memoiy  of  the  past 
hung  like  a  funereal  cloud, ,  shading  all  its  enjoy- 
ments. 

At  first,  the  sudden  transition  and  glo-\ving  contrast 
of  chmates  were  beyond  expression  reviving  and  ex- 
hilarating. In  place  of  the  sleety  shower  and 
howling  tempest,  I  found  the  mild,  elastic  breath  of 
Spring,  under  a  golden  light,  which  sent  its  warm 
cheering  to  the  inmost  heart ;  and,  instead  of  the  cold 
glare  which  emanates  from  the  shrouding  snow  of  a 
northern  winter,  I  beheld,  on  every  side,  the  lavish 
and  varied  profusion  of  vegetable  beauty,  exhibitmg 
tliose  brilliant  and  exquisite  tints,  which  a  southern 
sun  alone  can  develope.  I  felt  the  glad  stirrings  of 
health  and  joy  within  me  ;  the  fetters  seemed  melting 
away  from  my  limbs,  and  I  walked  forth  once  more 
witli  the  buoyant  tread  of  conscious  \^gor.  I  was 
mistaken.  My  shackles  were  only  relaxed,  not 
removed,  and   soon  again   I   felt  their  painful  re- 


THE    INVALID.  '^^13 

straiiits.  And,  ah  me !  how  sad  it  is  to  feel  this 
mournful  certainty  in  a  land  of  strangers !  to  look 
in  vain  for  the  familiar  face  of  anxious  love,  or  even 
for  those  insensible  but  beloved  objects,  around 
which  the  young  heart  had  twined  its  fresh  and 
vigorous  sensibilities,  stamping  them  with  the  sacred 
impress  oHiome! 

The  veiy  richness  and  magnificence  of  nature 
grew  distasteful ;  and  I  turned  from  the  lofty  mag- 
noha,  hftmg  its  large  and  splendid  flowers  to  the  sky, 
from  the  groves  of  orange  and  myrtle,  to  think  of 
tlie  lovely  pine,  whose  melanchoh'^  shadow  fell  upon 
the  gi-aves  of  my  kmdred.  Oh,  sickness  is  full  of 
querulous  sensibihty  and  unreasonable  exactions; 
and  none  but  the  hand  of  true  and  patient  love 
should  bind  its  aching  brow,  or  tend  its  faltering 
steps.  It  pines  away  beneath  the  cold  eye  of  tlie 
sti'anger,  and  his  very  charities  and  kindness  are 
like  ice  to  the  heart  that  is  yearning  for  affection. 

All  this  I  soon  felt  in  my  new  situation ;  but 
tliere  came  with  it  a  salutaiy  bitterness.  I  was 
alone,  and  for  the  first  time  I  felt  that  I  had  no  God; 
that  that  heavenly  friendship,  from  which  distance 
cannot  separate,  nor  sickness,  nor  sorrow,  divorce, 
was  not  mine.  This  thought  first  came  into  my 
mind  in  a  tide  of  sorrowful  feelings,  and  I  mourned, 
with  a  kind  of  sentimental  tendeniess,  my  "  loneli- 
ness of  lot."  But  there  grew  upon  me,  every  day, 
a  deeper  and  more  agitating  interest  in  tlie  snliject — 
an  energy  of  anxiety,  which  seemed  to  surmount  the 


214 


THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 


weakness  of  decaying  nature,  and  revive  within  me 
all  the  strength  of  early  sensil)ilities.  With  intense 
emotion  I  mourned  my  life-long  infatuation,  the 
spirit  of  slumber  which  had  so  long  sealed  up  my 
spiritual  vision^  and,  recalling  the  lost  opportunities 
and  privileges  of  other  days,  I  was  ready  to  fold  my 
hands  in  despair,  believing  that  the  harvest  Avas 
forever  over.  Indeed,  there  were  times  when  I  had 
a  moody  satisfaction  in  resting  in  this  idea;  thus 
reheving  myself  from  those  internal  conflicts,  and 
painful  efforts,  to  which  a  sense  of  duty,  and  the 
faint  glimmerings  of  hope,  occasionally  prompted 
me.  But  the  finger  of  God  had  touched  my  heart, 
and  nothing  but  his  own  most  holy  peace  could 
quiet  its  deep-stirred  agitations.  Alas !  the  curtains 
of  a  sick  bed  often  shroud  from  the  world  without, 
scenes  which  might  quell  the  boldest  spirit,  and 
soften  the  hardest  heart :  the  lonely  pillow  steeped 
in  tears  of  hopeless  anguish,  the  feeble  and  emaci- 
ated hands  wrung  in  speechless  sorrow — but  above 
all,  the  upward,  imploring  look  of  the  failing  eyes, 
whose  agony  of  meaning  none  but  He  who  made 
the  heart  of  man  can  fully  comprehend, — these  are 
those  last  communings  with  his  Maker,  to  which 
sickness  and  solitude  drive  the  poor,  sinful  sufferer. 
And  there,  on  his  bed  of  pain,  he  lies,  like  a  crushed 
worm  in  the  path  of  that  mighty  Being,  so  long  and 
rashly  despised. 

The  woman  with  whom  I  lodged  was  kind  and 
well  meaning,  though  coarse  in  her  appearance  and 


THE    INVALID.  215 

manners.  Observing  my  downcast  looks  and  de- 
jected manners,  she  suggested  my  going  to  church, 
remarking  that  she  thought  it  would  "  be  a  comfort 
to  me."  The  thought  seemed  to  dart  hope  and  conso- 
lation into  my  heart.  The  church,  that  holy  place 
where  my  fathers  worshipped  God,  from  which  I 
myself  had  wafted  the  reverent  prayer  of  childhood, 
— how  could  I  so  long  forget  it  ?  associated  as  it  was 
with  the  Redeemer's  dying  love  and  forgiving  gracB. 
Tears  of  thankful  rapture  streamed  down  my  cheeks, 
and,  raising  my  heart  to  God,  I  thanked  hun  for  iJie 
church!  that  hght  which  his  goodness  has  kindled 
in  this  dark  world,  to  cheer  the  fainting  spirits  and 
guide  the  wandemig  steps  of  the  sorrowful  and 
bewildered  penitent. 

Thither  I  went  with  trembling  steps,  and  still 
more  tremulous  hopes.  I  listened  again  to  those 
sounds  which  had  so  often  fallen  unheeded  on  the 
ear  of  health,  and,  as  I  raised  my  dim  and  hea-vy 
eyes  to  look  on  the  speaker,  I  thought  upon  my 
ways,  and  mourned  ;  thought  upon  those  days,  when, 
in  the  plenitude  of  health,  and  in  the  lightness  of  a 
careless  heart,  my  rovmg  glances  had  wandered 
from  object  to  object,  like  "the  fool's  eye,"  the 
messenger  and  the  message  of  mercy  alike  unlieeded. 
But  I  was  altered :  the  faded  face,  and  bending  form 
of  sickness,  were  not  more  unlike  the  erect  and 
sparkhng  mien  of  health,  than  my  depressed  and 
downcast  soul  to  the  hght  and  giddy  spirit  which 
animated  me  then.     I  Ustened  with  tlie  same  breath- 


216  THE   CHRISTIAN    OFFERIXG. 

less  and  deeply  concentrated  attention,  with  which 
the  poor  criminal  drinks  in  the  words  of  sentence  ; 
and  when  the  services  were  closed,  instead  of  the 
empty  mind  and  frozen  heart,  which  I  had  so  often 
carried  from  the  house  of  God,  I  left  the  church  in  a 
whirl  of  emotion  which  language  is  too  feeble  to 
portray. 

I  cannot  at  this  time  distinctly  analyze  the  effect 
of  each  successive  sermon ;  but,  on  the  whole,  1 
knew  it  was  hopeful  and  encouraging,  such  as  drew 
my  willing  feet  into  the  path  of  life  ;  and  if  they 
were  often  wounded  with  thorns  of  difficulty,  I 
knew  that  it  was  my  ov^di  reckless  hand  which  had 
planted  them :  all  its  ruggedness  was  mme,  all  its 
peace  and  hope  came  down  from  above.  There 
was  one  circumstance  connected  with  my  attendance 
on  this  church,  which  seems  worthy  of  particular 
notice,  as  it  led  to  my  further  establishment  in  the 
truth.  Nearly  opposite  to  the  seat  which  I  occupied 
was  situated  '  the  siranger^s  pew^^  that  provision  for 
poverty  and  casualty,  from  which  both  alilte  seem 
to  shiink,  as  too  marked  an  acknowledgment  of 
humiliating  circumstances.     One  solitaiy   old  man 

was   the   tenant   of  the  stranger's  pew  at . 

There  was  a  seeming  forlornness  about  him  very 
touching  to  my  feelings.  No  child,  no  friend  sup- 
ported his  feeble  steps:  the  crutch  on  which  he 
leaned  seemed  his  only  prop.  There  he  came,  in 
his  loneliness,  Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  moving  hum- 
bly through  the  ranks  of  prosperity  and  happiness. 


THE    INVALID.  217 

his  Stooping  form,  his  thin,  gray  locks,  and  dark, 
wrinkled  visage,  exliibiting  that  mysterious  history 
of  the  heart  which  time  and  sorrow  trace  upon  the 
human  form  and  countenance.  Yet  was  there 
sometlang  in  the  mild,  serene  rays,  which  beamed 
from  his  dim  and  faded  eyes,  wliich  told  of  tran- 
quil hope  and  cheerful  trust.  I  looked  on  his 
shabby,  though  decent  dress,  his  fuiTowed  face,  and 
lonely  situation,  and  marvelled  at  the  sacred  quiet, 
the  ineffable  peace,  which  dwelt  in  that  aged  coun- 
tenance. Surely,  I  thought,  his  spirit  is  stayed 
upon  God. 

The  fluctuations  of  my  disease  occasionally  per- 
mitted my  rambling  around  the  envhons  of . 

In  one  of  these  lonely  walks,  I  encountered  tlie  old 
man  of  the  stranger's  pew.  He  was  alone,  seated 
on  an  old  broken  boat,  which  was  half  buried  in 
the  firm,  gravelly  sand  of  the  beach.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  blue  expanse  before  us,  and  seemed 
pursuing  the  white  sails  which,  scudding  before  the 
evening  gale,  glanced  swiftly  onward  toward  the 
distant  sea. 

I  ventured  to  interrupt  his  meditations  by  a  re- 
spectful salutation,  and  something  like  the  followmg 
conversation  ensued  : — 

"  I  observe  you  frequently  in  church :  have  you 
lived  long  in  this  place  ?" 

«  AU  my  hfe,  lady." 

"  Doubtless  you  have  experienced  many  changes." 
19 


218  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

"  No,  madam,  not  many  changes  ;  except  that  of 
which  the  psahnist  speaks,  when  he  says,  'I  have 
been  young,  and  now  I  am  old.' " 

There  was  something  in  the  quiet  simphcity  with 
which  this  was  spoken,  and  the  faint  emotion  which 
ruffled  for  a  moment  the  placid  face  of  the  speaker, 
which  affected  me  inexpressibly.  I  looked  on  "  tlie 
wliite,  white  head,"  the  depressed  and  bending 
form,  the  slow,  infirm  motion,  and  thought  of  the 
time  when  perhaps  this  very  beach  was  printed  with 
his  light,  bounding  step,  and  this  very  breeze  lifted 
the  dark  locks  of  his  youth. 

Perhaps  he  noticed  my  emotion  ;  for  when  next 
he  spoke,  his  voice  seemed  to  falter  with  sympa- 
thetic feeling,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  confidential 
softening  in  his  manner  towards  me. 

"  I  was  wrong,"  he  remarked,  "  to  say  that  I  had 
experienced  no  change.  It  is  true  that  I  have 
always  moved  in  the  same  poor  sphere ;  that  the 
poor  man's  crust,  and  the  poor  man's  toil,  have 
always  been  mine  ;  yet  I  trust  that  I  have  experi- 
enced one  great,  one  blessed  change.  There  was  a 
thne,  lady,  when  I  wrestled  hard  with  the  troubles 
of  Ufe,  and  toiled  after  its  fancied  pleasures,  God 
Ivtio^vs,  in  '  the  sweat  of  my  brow,'  sharing  my  days 
between  pinching  cares,  and  short,  delirious,  mad- 
dening enjoyment.  When  the  dawn  broke  upon 
me,  I  cursed  the  light  which  called  me  to  my  early 
labor  :  and  when  the  settinsr  sun  dismissed  me  from 


THE    INVALID. 


219 


the  field,  I  dragged  my  stiff  and  toil-worn  limbs  to 
some  place  of  riot,  where  the  name  of  God  never 
came,  but  in  the  blasphemer's  oath,  his  laws  were 
never  remembered,  but  in  disobedience.  Ah,  lady, 
'tis  a  grievous  thing  to  live  without  God  in  the 
world,  even  when  the  lines  have  fallen  to  us  in 
pleasant  places,  when  every  day  and  every  hour 
brings  its  allotted  indulgence ;  but  miserable,  indeed, 
is  the  wickedness  of  the  poor !  The  '  sweat  of  the 
brow,'  and  thorns  of  transgression,  are  all  that  sin 
has  to  offer  them ;  their  pleasures  are  coarse  and 
rude,  and  full  of  conscious  crime,  not  like  the  decent 
vices  of  the  rich." 

"  Surely  you  do  not  regret  this,"  I  said  earnestly  ; 
"there  seems  to  be  most  security  where  there  is 
least  delusion." 

"God  forbid,"  replied  the  old  man,  reverently 
liftmg  his  well-worn  hat  from  his  head ;  "  God 
forbid  that  I  shoidd  complain  of  Providence.  No^ 
lady,  I  rejoice  that  the  hedge  which  God  has  di*awn 
around  honest  poverty  is  strong,  and  full  of  sharp 
and  wounding  thorns.  He  is  the  poor  man's  God, 
his  most  abundant  portion  :  and  it  is  only  when  we 
wander  from  him,  that  we  are  made  to  taste  the 
bitter  wages  of  sin." 

Gradually  I  drew  from  my  companion  the  history 
of  those  few  and  evil  days,  which  make  up  the 
longest  life.  He  told  me  of  a  life  darkened  with  the 
cares,  and  stained  with  the  sordid  vices,  of  poverty. 


220  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

He  told  me  of  the  recovering  grace  of  God,  and  my 
heart  magnified  his  goodness,  so  strong  in  endur- 
ance, so  patient  in  neglect,  so  triumphant  over  evil. 
From  his  aged  hps  distilled  a  gentle  and  refreshing 
wisdom,  wliich  came  like  healmg  bahn  into  my 
wounded  spirit.  I  gazed  on  him  with  love  and 
reverence,  as  an  affecting  monument  of  the  goodness 
of  God ;  and  when  I  saw  the  sacred  sparks  of  devotion 
glowing  through  the  white  ashes  of  decay,  I  felt  a 
deep,  a  reahzing  sense  of  the  truth  of  rehgion. 
Surely,  I  thought,  God  is  the  strength  of  his  heart, 
and  his  portion  forever !  On  this  rock  will  /  build 
my  hopes;  here  will  I  quietly  repose,  until  the 
evening  of  hfe  shut  peacefully  in. 


THE  DEATH  OF  HOWARD, 


THE    PHILA>"THROPIST. 


On  the  bleak  plain,  exposed  to  many  a  storm, 
Nigh  Cherson's  city,  some  few  versts  removed, 

There  Howard's  tomb  presents  its  simple  form, 
There  rest  the  ashes  of  the  man  beloved. 

He  chose  the  spot  5  'twas  suited  to  his  mind, 

Solemn  and  still,  each  trifling  scene  withdrawn ; 

Here  he  coiild  trace  the  woes  of  human  kind. 
The  sickly  captive,  or  the  wretch  forlorn. 

The  gloomy  cell  rose  present  to  his  view  ; 

Its  pale,  weak  tenant  sighed  upon  his  ear; 
At  which  his  ardent  soul  took  fire  anew. 

And  nobly  shone  through  many  a  falling  tear. 

His  hberal  hand  revived  the  fainting  heart, 
And  made  the  languid  current  faster  roll ; 

Some  "  word  in  season  "  he  would  there  impart, 
As  dew  refreshing  to  the  thirsty  soul. 
9=* 


222  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

The  summons  now  for  his  departure  came  ; 

With  cheerful  look  he  hailed  the  solemn  day. 
"  Death  has  no  terrors  ;"  'tis  a  pleasant  name, 

"  A  grateful  subject," — he  was  heard  to  say. 

Then  to  a  friend  : — "  You  know  the  spot  I  love  ; 

There  place  a  sun-dial  o'er  my  silent  grave  ; 
The  pompous  monument  I  disapprove  : 

To  be  forgotten,  this  is  all  I  crave." 

Forgotten  !     No.     Thy  name  endeared  shall  rise, 
Diffusing  fragrance  Lke  the  spicy  grove  ; 

Whilst,  as  some  rising  star  in  Eastern  skies, 
Thy  spirit  brightens  in  the  realms  of  love 

J.  W n. 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  JOHN  XIV.  8,  9. 

BY    THE    REV.    JEREMIAH    CHAPLIN,    D.  D., 
PRESIDENT  OF  WATERVILLE  COLLEGE. 

"  Philip  saith  unto  him  [Jesus],  Lord,  show  us  the  Father, 
and  it  sufficeth  us.  Jesus  saith  unto  him.  Have  I  been  so  long 
time  with  you,  and  yet  hast  thou  not  known  me,  PhiHp  ?  He 
that  hath  seen  me  hath  seen  the  Father  3  and  how  sayest  thou 
then,  Show  us  the  Father?" 

This  passage  I  have  long  considered  as  clearly 
teacliing  the  doctrine  of  our  Sa-viour's  true  and 
proper  divinity.  The  train  of  thought  by  which  I 
arrived  at  this  conclusion,  is,  substantially,  as  fol- 
lows:— Suppose  you  descend  into  one  of  the  salt 
mmes  of  Poland,  some  of  wliich  are  said  to  be  sev- 
eral hundi-ed  feet  below  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
and  that  you  converse  with  one  of  the  inhabitants 
of  that  subterraneous  world,  and  one  who  was  bom 
tliere,  and  who  had  never  seen  the  light  of  the  sun. 
You  undertalve  to  give  him  a  description  of  fields, 
and  pastures,  and  forests,  and  mountains,  and  a  va- 
riety of  other  things  to  be  found  on  the  earth's  sur- 
face. You  also  attempt  to  give  him  some  idea  of 
the  heavens,  of  the  azure  vault,  and  of  the  worlds 


224  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

of  light  with  which  it  is  bespangled  and  adorned. 
You  speak  particularly  of  the  sun,  and  of  the  splen- 
dor and  majesty  in  which  he  appears,  when  he 
marches  through  the  heavens  in  a  clear  day.  The 
man  hstens  with  profound  attention ;  and  at  length 
exclaims,  "  Show  me  that  glorious  sun,  and  I  shall 
be  satisfied."  Suppose  you  now  point  him  to  one 
of  the  lamps  which  burn  with  a  faint  and  feeble 
liglit  in  his  dreary  cavern,  and  say  to  him,  "  Do  you 
see  that  lamp  ?"  "  I  do,"  he  rephes,  "  but  what  of 
that  ?"  "  Why,"  say  you,  "  he  that  hath  seen  that 
lamp,  hath  seen  the  sun  ;  and  why  do  you  say  to  me, 
Show  me  the  sun  ?"  Should  you  speak  thus  to  the 
inhabitant  of  the  mine,  how  would  you  appear  to 
him  ?  and,  I  may  add,  how  would  you  appear  to  all 
men  of  sense  ?  The  apphcation  is  easy.  The  simil- 
itude, I  admit,  is  in  one  respect  imperfect.  But 
that  very  unperfection  is  adapted  to  evince  the  truth 
of  the  doctrine  which  I  suppose  to  be  contained  in 
the  passage,  namely,  the  doctrine  of  our  Saviour's 
divinity.  There  is  some  proportion  between  the 
light  of  a  lamp  and  the  light  of  the  sun.  Both 
ai*e  created,  and  therefore  both  are  finite.  But  if 
Jesus  Christ  be  not  tridy  and  properly  God,  there  is 
an  infinite  disproportion  between  him  and  the  eter- 
nal Father.  Hence,  if  it  would  be  absurd  to  say, 
"  He  that  hath  seen  a  lamp  hath  seen  the  sun,"  much 
more  absurd  must  it  be  to  say,  "  He  that  hath  seen 
Christ  hath  seen  the  Father,"  unless  Christ  be  truly 
and  properly  divine. 


THE   JEWISH   CAPTIVE. 


Wan  was  his  cheek,  and  dark  was  his  eye, 

Aiid  high  heaved  his  breast  of  pride, 
And  scornfully  spurned  he  the  destiny. 

Which  freedom's  bright  beam  had  denied. 

Dread  vengeance  lowered  in  Albiram's  brow, 
As  he  thought  on  the  days  that  were  gone — 

Days  of  bliss !  they  had  passed — and  what  was  he 
now? 
An  exile,  all  homeless  and  lone  ! 

Quick  fancy  worked  in  his  aching  mind, 

And  fire  through  his  brain  did  thrill ; 
As  he  mused  on  the  land  he  had  left  behind : 

As  he  thought  on  sweet  Zion's  hill ! 

The  soft  moon-beam  silvered  o'er  the  stream ; 

And  glittered  the  host  of  heaven — 
But  to  him  of  joy  there  was  no  dream, 

Nor  ray  of  consolation  given ! 

Vain  the  fair  scene  ;  for  was  he  not 

A  slave  in  Chaldea's  land  ? 
And  could  that  hour  be  e'er  forgot, 

He  was  torn  from  Judah's  strand  ? 


22G  THE    CHRISTIAN    OFFERING. 

"  Oh  take  the  harp  from  yon  willow  tree, 

Enron,  thou  son  of  the  song, 
And  soothing  its  tones  shall  be  to  me, 

And  its  notes  rememhered  long. 

"  Sing  me,  oh !  sing  a  tale  of  the  years 

That  may  never  more  return, 
Such  as  once  filled  my  youthful  ears. 

When  the  first  flame  of  valor  did  bum  I" 

He  has  taken  the  harp  from  the  willow  tree, 
And  thus  runs  the  strain  of  his  minstrelsy. — 

THE    DEATH    OF    GOLIATH. 

His  heart  is  cold  ;  his  head  is  low, 
And  his  pride  of  strength  departed ; 

Withered  m  death  the  dauntless  brow, 
And  the  look  that  terror  darted ! 

Oh !  Elah's  vale  is  red  with  gore. 
And  steel  with  steel  is  clashing ; 

But  where  is  he,  who  rushed  before. 

Like  a  flame  through  the  columns  dashing  ? 

Young  hero  of  Elah !  did  sleep 

Thy  sword  in  its  scabbard  that  morning  ? — 
No :  many  a  maiden  shall  weep. 

When  she  sees  not  her  lover  returning ! 


THE    JEWISH    CAPTIVE.  227 

And  many  a  widow  lament 

The  cliariot  wheels  delaying 
Of  the  lord  of  her  heart,  thou  hast  sent 

To  his  long  sleep,  thy  valor  displaying ! 

Ye  daughters  of  Israel,  rejoice, 

With  tabret  and  wild  cymbals  sounding, 

And  raised  be  the  loveliest  voice, 
The  fame  of  the  hero  resounding ! 

But  vainly  the  sword  of  the  brave 
Might  flash,  like  the  meteor  gleaming. 

Had  the  Lord  not  arisen  to  save, 
His  chosen  from  slavery  redeeming  ! 

But  husJti ! — for  the  scoffer's  at  hand, 
And  the  spirit  of  song  hath  departed — 

Oh !  '  tis  strange,  in  a  far  distant  land, 
That  my  harp  from  its  willow  is  parted. 

W.  V. 


THE   DYING   WARRIOR. 


BY   THE    REV.    ROBERT   m'cARTEE,  D.  D. 


On  Zion's  mount  the  clarion  blew, 

That  called  th'  embattled  hosts  to  war ; 

Jehovah's  blood-stained  banner  flew, 
And  on  its  crest  the  Morning  Star. 

Starting  from  field,  fi-om  wood,  from  wave, 

I  saw  his  chosen  ones  arise ; 
Their  aim  a  conquest  o'er  the  grave, 

Their  armor  tempered  in  the  skies. 

A  leader  rushed  into  the  field, 

And  sought  the  fiercest  of  the  fight ; 

The  bow  of  promise  on  his  shield, 
His  blade,  a  brand  of  heavenly  might 

I  heard  his  silver  trumpet  call, 

As  gathering  hosts  around  him  pressed ; 
And  "  Onward"  was  his  cry  to  all. 
As  to  the  foe  he  bared  his  breast. 


THE    DYING    WARRIOR.  229 

The  sun  was  high ;  the  battle  poured 

Its  full,  its  fiercest  tide  along ; 
Still,  where  the  tempest  darkest  lowered, 

I  heard  liim  shout  his  battle  song. 

The  sun  is  low ;  and  other  breasts 

The  brunt  of  battle  boldly  dare  ; 
But  he  has  gained  the  land  of  rest, 

And  palm  and  cro^\'n  he  looked  for  there. 

I  saw  him  on  the  well-fought  field ; — 
His  sword,  his  shield  beside  him  lay — 

Like  one  who  knew  not  how  to  yield. 
Until  his  Master  called,  "  iVway !" 

Around  him  battle's  banners  fly, 

And  still  the  "  Onward  "  cry  is  given ; 

But  he  nor  hears  nor  gives  the  ciy, — 
RoMET>'*  has  passed  to  yonder  heaven. 

*  The  late  Rev.  J.  B.  Rome>Ti,  D.  D.,  pastor  of  the  Cedar 
Street  Presbyterian  Church,  New  York. 

20 


THE   SABBATH  DAY. 


0  DAT  OF  PEACE,  wliose  dawning  ray 
Smiles  meekly  iii  the  eastern  sky, 

1  love  to  own  thy  soothing  sway, 

While  earth's  vain  cares  and  tumults  die. 

O  DAT  OF  JOT,  thy  choral  stram 

Sounds  sweetly  in  the  pilgrim's  ear ; 

The  listening  soul  forgets  its  pain. 
And  loses  all  its  guilty  fear. 

O  DAT  OF  LOVE,  wlicn  he  who  died 
Removes  the  sinner's  load  of  wo. 

And,  smihng,  shows  his  wounded  side. 
Whence  hope,  and  life  and  pardon  flow. 

O  DAT  OF  REST,  v/hat  lieavculy  calm, 

What  hallowed  peace  thine  hours  impart ! 

How  often  has  thy  healing  balm 

Revived  and  soothed  the  contrite  heart ! 


THE    SABBATH    DAY.  231 

The  shades  of  earth  shall  cloud  these  eyes, 
Each  earth-born  joy  be  lost,  unknown  ; 

Yet  stiU  thy  memory'  shall  arise. 

Till  Ufe's  last  lingering  spark  is  flown. 

T.  W.  H. 


THE   END. 


1-' 


■/'ifln. 


mt^-'^m. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recall. 

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